


Muet

by eirenical (chibi1723)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil
Genre: ...probably, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Psychics/Psionics, Amnesia, Angst with a Happy Ending, BDSM, Breathplay, Consent Issues, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Extremely Dubious Consent, Government Conspiracy, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Mind Control, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Mind Rape, Muteness, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Past Courfeyrac/Jehan, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rating May Change, Scars, because it's certainly not healthy BDSM, but... yeah, i really hesitate to tag this, minor Enjolras/Feuilly, minor Grantaire/Jehan, this is not a happy story, though it may have a happy ending, two different situations there
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-09
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2018-01-07 20:48:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 50,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1124228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi1723/pseuds/eirenical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where the government controls even thoughts, free speech is a luxury few can afford.  Les Amis de l'ABC believe it should not be a luxury so much as a right, and those in power will do whatever they must -- will *destroy* whoever they must --  to silence them for good.  When Enjolras is the one to fall prey to their machinations, Les Amis are left reeling and without a leader.  R couldn't care less about that.  He just wants his partner back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _January 9, 2014:_** Right. So... this story is proof that I am highly suggestible. I'll detail that more in the end notes. -.-;;; For now, all I'll say is that you should really check the warnings on this story before engaging. It's already pretty dark and it's only going to get worse. Consent issues will abound, as will eventual discussions of past rape. That being said, this is the most significant world-building I've done in a while and I'm very excited about how this world is shaping up, so I hope you'll give it a chance and come along on this ride with me. It's going to be a bear of a story and may possibly top FYFM for length when it's done. On the upside, my schedule is slowly beginning to settle, holiday exchanges are over, and I've picked up an AMAZING beta reader, so hopefully I'll start posting things more regularly.
> 
> ...hopefully. -.-;;;
> 
> ETA (7/16/14): (Further notes of a potentially spoiler-y nature on listed ships in the end notes.)
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/72781955694/muet-2004-words-by-eirenical-chapters-1).
> 
> * * *

The bass was heavy, a deep thrum that settled into the space under Enjolras' rib cage and beat hard against his heart with every breath. It was pervasive, beating through the floor he weaved unsteadily across, the bar stool he caught himself on when he nearly fell, even the overly loud voices screaming after him, asking if he was all right. He wasn't all right. He couldn't feel anything but the bass.

When Enjolras made it to the door, pushed his way out into the crisp night air, and gained a little distance, the bass released its hold, finally allowed him to draw breath without interference. Its absence was an almost palpable presence, as though he'd been walking hard against a wind which had abruptly stopped.

"Whoa, there! You don't look so good. Need a hand over to the wall?"

In the sudden silence, the words made no sense and Enjolras raised his head dumbly to stare at the one who had spoken. Dark hair, curls plastered to his forehead with sweat, blue eyes, and a once 5 o'clock shadow which had long since grown up into a 10 o'clock stubble. Enjolras gasped out a name, clutched at the worn green flannel under his hands and was immediately hushed.

"That's right. Right over here. If you're going to puke, please try to avoid the sneakers. You know how I hate having to replace a nicely broken in pair."

As though those words had been a prediction, Enjolras felt his stomach roll, marveled at how the entire street dipped and rolled along with it. He clutched harder at the green flannel with one hand, caught himself on the brick wall of the club with the other. He panted out a question, but when no answer was forthcoming, he was unsure if he'd even been heard much less understood.

There was a tangle of other voices then, coming from behind them, in front of them, and to the side, as well. Enjolras couldn't make heads or tails of what they were saying, but the tightening of muscles underneath his hands told him that the one who held him _could_ understand… and what he'd understood was nothing good. He bent low towards Enjolras' ear. "We're in a bit of a pickle here, Enjolras. I know it's not your strong suit, but you're going to have to trust me if you want us to get out of here with our skins intact. So, you tell me. You think you can trust me that far or should I be dumping your ass in the dirt and getting myself out of Dodge?"

Enjolras looked up into those eyes, winced as they hardened right in front of him, closing him out as though their own was already gone. Enjolras shook his head, relieved beyond measure when he was finally able to form words and force them out of his tongue-tangled mouth. "I may not always like you… but I do trust you, R. Get us home."

R's eyes closed briefly before opening again in a wry smile. "One short-order miracle, coming right up." Before Enjolras could so much as register R's intent, he was caught up in strong arms and pressed insistently back against the brick of the wall. The bass leeched through, set back up in his bones… and _itched_. He pressed a hand to his chest, fought the feeling that he was drowning in sound, cursed the knowledge that were it not for R's hands he'd be crumpled on the ground, unable to stand. R soothed him again, words that Enjolras couldn't make sense of, but accompanied with a gentle hand against his face, his chest, his hip, his brow -- as though R would map him by touch alone. He relaxed into it, whimpered again as the steady stroking soothed the itch of the bass in the pit of his stomach. When he finally pried his eyes open again, it was to see a field of blue bearing down on him… just before a warm pair of lips closed over his own.

Enjolras was too stunned, too unsteady to do anything more than stay where he'd been put, flat against the wall, pinned by lips and hands and eyes… and the steady thrum of the bass inside him which made him yearn for something more. The voices receded, following the sound of unfamiliar footsteps past them into the club, and Enjolras finally let himself relax, giving in to the white noise in his head and the bass thrumming in his bones. R's soft words were the last thing he knew before he let the bass pull him under.

"You're safe, now. I've got you. You're safe, now. I've got you. You're safe…"

* * *

"God _damn_ it, R! What the hell happened tonight?"

R jumped, his heart momentarily leaping into his throat before returning to its normal location. He'd all but forgotten Courfeyrac was even in the room. Pausing in his ministrations, he turned to face the furious eyes now glaring daggers at him. After a moment's careful scrutiny, R noted the downturned lips, the sheen of wetness gathering in the corners of Courfeyrac's eyes, the slight tremble in his hands -- signs that gave away another emotion lurking underneath that anger.

Courfeyrac wasn't angry at R… he was afraid. He was afraid that all the work they'd put into this operation, the months they'd spent cultivating contacts, the resources they'd spent… the people they'd lost… would be for nothing. And they wouldn't know until Enjolras woke up, until he told them for sure if he'd been made or if they still had an operation left to go back under with.

R acknowledged that fear with a short nod and lifted his shoulders in a silent shrug. Courfeyrac stared at him for a moment, finally threw his hands up and jerked out of his chair, kicking at it half-heartedly as he rose. Moments later, he had his hands buried in his hair and the force with which he pulled at his already disheveled curls left R wincing in sympathy for his abused scalp. Finally, he sighed, waved a hand towards the still figure beside R on the bed. "When he wakes up, I need to know what happened. I'm not sending either of you back under until we know it's safe. I won't lose anyone else. Especially not you."

Blue eyes met hazel and R nodded once to show he understood. Neither spoke the word, neither had to, but it was on both their minds and hung in the air between them like a ghost. Normally they two never spoke of it -- neither was eager to prod at the other's scars more than absolutely necessary -- but they'd almost lost Enjolras tonight. They were both feeling more than a little raw and exposed over it and weren't as careful as they should have been.

_Philadelphia._

Courfeyrac inclined his head, nodded once in return, turned on his heel and left the room. R turned back towards Enjolras and gently stroked a sweat-soaked lock of blond hair from his forehead, tried to ignore the way that forehead was creased, the way his eyes were squinted closed, even in sleep. Taking his partner's hand in his, R cradled it close to his chest… and waited.

"You're safe, now. I've got you. You're safe, now. I've got you. You're safe…"

* * *

Hot. Sticky. Heavy.

Enjolras was having difficulty picking an adjective. They all applied. He groaned, tried to push himself into a sitting position, collapsed back on the bed after the attempt quickly yielded a harsh failure. Something was weighing him down. Glancing down at his chest, Enjolras saw nothing but a sea of wild, dark curls. Tentatively, voice hoarse from disuse, he guessed, "…Courfeyrac?"

At the sound of the name, those curls shifted, the person they belonged to groaned, and burrowed deeper against him for a moment before lifting away completely. This revealed blue eyes, a too-large nose, and a face full of stubble that now had delusions of beard-dom. There was a wry smile on those lips as he released Enjolras' hand and sat back. "Heh. No such luck, partner mine. Nobody here but us chickens." When Enjolras failed to respond, R rolled his eyes and briskly stood. "You need a bucket or are you gonna make it to the bathroom to puke your guts out?"

Enjolras' eyes narrowed as he levered himself into a sitting position, at last. "What makes you think I'm going to be sick?" The words had barely left his mouth when Enjolras' eyes widened, and he abruptly clamped a hand to his mouth, fighting down a surge of nausea. Shouldn't that have passed by now? R simply smirked as Enjolras fought his way free of the blankets and stumbled into the room's small toilet, where he was abruptly and thoroughly sick. Once Enjolras was finished emptying his stomach -- eyes tearing and body shaking against R's as R held him up and gently stroked his hair -- he finally got his answer. 

"The emetic Joly gave you the second you started waking up. Whatever they slipped you was nasty, Enjolras. We had to get it out of you."

Before Enjolras had a chance to formulate a proper answer, another voice interrupted from the door to the toilet. "So, Sleeping Beauty has finally awoken from his slumber. Glad to have you back with us. Now, maybe we can find out what the hell went wrong."

Enjolras groaned, put a hand to his head as R helped him to his feet and maneuvered him out of the toilet and towards the room's only chair. Once settled, he looked up at R, frowning. R shrugged, nodded towards Courfeyrac. Enjolras frowned harder as he turned around. "Why didn't you ask R? He was there. He knows as much as I do."

Courfeyrac's eyes widened; his mouth opened, then closed, before his eyes briefly followed suit. He winced, murmured more to himself than to Enjolras, "Joly warned us that memory loss might be a side effect of whatever it is they gave you, but I didn't think…" Courfeyrac took in a deep shuddering breath before continuing. "Enjolras…"

Enjolras held up his hand, then, fought against it as his breath began to come in short, panicked bursts at the too gentle look on Courfeyrac's face. Whatever Courfeyrac was about to say, Enjolras was suddenly sure that it was bad. It was bad, and he didn't want to know it. He didn't want--

A gentle hand dropped onto Enjolras' shoulder, and Enjolras turned, eyes wide, pupils halfway blown in panic. R gave him a brief squeeze for reassurance, his smile soft and full of understanding. Enjolras didn't want his understanding. He didn't want his sympathy, didn't want anything to do with that knowledge R and Courfeyrac shared and he did not. He wanted to reach up, to grab onto R's hand and beg him to leave it be. _He didn't want to know._

R eyes shone with a bitter sympathy at the aborted movement and Enjolras forced himself to keep still, to not interfere. If R was strong enough to live with this knowledge, if Courfeyrac was strong enough to live with this knowledge, then Enjolras owed them his own strength to carry it, as well. He was not one for abandoning his friends to bear their burdens alone. So, he stayed silent, allowing himself to do nothing more or less than watch as R pulled down the collar of his turtleneck. And beneath it… Enjolras swallowed hard, staring in horror at the ragged scar that ran across R's neck, at the ugly mess of it, the whorls and ridges of a terrible wound which hadn't healed correctly, which had to have left damage far deeper than skin… a scar that Enjolras didn't remember having seen before.

This time, Courfeyrac did say the word, sadness and guilt giving it more weight than it could ever have had in another's mouth.

"Enjolras… I think I need to tell you about Philadelphia."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** So, I have some major thank yous to dole out, here...
> 
> Thanks to [frosthe](http://frosthe.tumblr.com) for being an amazing tumble-buddy and for always being willing to field (and sometimes encourage) my odd-as-shit fic dream babble whenever I feel the need to spew it. Thanks to [Luchia](http://luchia13.tumblr.com) for being all around awesome and for being a writing buddy when I need one... and for accidentally getting me to start this thing.
> 
> And thanks, praises, statues and medals and ALL THE WONDERFUL THINGS to [doeskin-pantaloons](http://doeskin-pantaloons.tumblr.com), a.k.a. MY AMAZING BETA, for taking time out from the already monumental task of catching up on FYFM (so as to beta-read chapter 14 when it's ready) to beta-read this for me. As always, this story is the better for having passed through her hands and any remaining mistakes or oddities are purely mine.
> 
> And now the ship notes... 
> 
> (I don't think these are really spoilers, but just in case...)
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> _ETA (7/16/14): OK, so lately I've become very sensitive to how ships are tagged particularly a) when the ship is tagged and is really only background and b) when the ship is tagged and it is a break-up fic or a cheating fic or something else that is equally unhappy. And it's occurred to me that I'm probably not the only one sensitive to those sorts of things. In the interest of full disclosure and avoiding bad feelings... as a general note, any ship that I actually list in the relationship tags is one that will have a happy together ending, no matter how it looks right now. So, if you need that reassurance, consider it given. That is all. ^_^_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Damn it, the man was fast! Combeferre's heart slammed up into his throat, his finger stuttering against the panic button as he fought not to press it. Prouvaire was practically melded to Courfeyrac's front, one hand twisted in the material of his shirt, the other sliding upwards to cup his neck, lips split wide in a sneering grin, eyes dark with ruthless need and desire -- a desire to own, to possess, to _remake_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _January 22, 2014:_** Well... this chapter was not written from a happy place and it shows. From here on out, we're earning our 'M' rating and there is some very dubious consent going on. If that is not something you want to read, please don't feel obligated on my account.
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/74150435799/damn-it-the-man-was-fast-combeferres-heart).
> 
> * * *

The pale glow of a computer screen was the only light in the narrow room. Combeferre hadn't set out to work in the dark; he hardly ever did. He'd begun working in bright daylight, doing routine maintenance and surveillance, nothing more, and the day had dimmed and hardened around him. The call came in late afternoon that R had lost Enjolras, unable to track him through the crowds gathering at the underground club. It had been too perfectly arranged, their every strength too perfectly planned for, to have been anything but an inside job. And _that_ was the biggest worry of all. For who could possibly have betrayed them like that?

Courfeyrac had been frantic from the moment Enjolras went missing, visions of another day and another city looming large over all of them as the day turned to night and the skies darkened. Call after call after call came in, none providing any more information than they'd had when Enjolras had first gone missing. Combeferre had been forced to watch his friend unravel, growing more and more desperate as the night wore on, until _finally_ R had caught the scent of their lost leader.

It had been a risk. They'd known it was a risk. It was always a risk, sending Enjolras into the field. He was more than just their leader -- he was their symbol. As an entire generation of fictional wizards had look to one Harry Potter, so too, did an entire nation, an entire _world_ , look to Enjolras for salvation. Without him, that fragile hope would crumble and everything Les Amis had worked towards these long years would truly be for naught. They couldn't afford to lose him. They couldn't afford to lose anyone. They were each crucial to the cause in their own way and it was only after deliberate weighing of pros and cons that any one of the core group was sent out on assignment. The benefits of the contacts they would make, the information they would win, were to have far outweighed the risks or they'd never have agreed to let Enjolras and R go. Only now… Combeferre didn't even know if they'd made those contacts, if they'd learned what it was Enjolras was so determined to learn from them. He didn't know if all this fear and worry had been worth it. So, he'd remained, locked in his computers, fraught with the need to find the leak that had nearly lost them Enjolras… and plug it.

"So, the prodigal son has been returned safe and sound, I hear."

Combeferre's head shot up, eyes darting from the laptop screen to the figure outlined by the light from the now open door. Lifting a hand to shield his eyes from the brightness, Combeferre frowned at the deceptively soft voice. "Prouvaire, in what world and using what definition could you ever justify calling Enjolras a prodigal son?"

Prouvaire draped himself along the doorjamb, catching his long braid of dark auburn hair between nimble fingers and lifting it to brush the tip back and forth across his lips. As usual, Combeferre could practically see the unspoken words piling up behind his eyes -- a flat green which hinted little and revealed nothing of what those words might be. Finally Prouvaire's lips lifted up into a small smile, his shoulders into a shrug, as he said, "A figure of speech, my dear Combeferre. It means nothing."

"All words mean something." Combeferre pushed back his chair and stood, uneasy as always to remain sitting when Prouvaire was standing. The softness in that slim body was deceptive, the beauty of features and face only skin-deep. There was a festering darkness inside Prouvaire and he was wont to lash out with it whenever the mood struck, no matter how inconvenient the timing. And that had been true for as long as Combeferre had known him, which wasn't long at all, not really. Prouvaire was one of their newer recruits and he'd won his way into the inner circle more by luck than by earning it. Combeferre had argued against it, but in the end had been overruled. Prouvaire had a skill they needed and they couldn't turn him away. It was as simple and complicated as that. Combeferre only hoped Enjolras' trust in the man wouldn't prove misplaced.

Just now, Prouvaire was throwing back his head and laughing the laugh of one truly amused… and slightly deranged. It wasn't exactly confidence-inspiring. When that laughter finally diminished to a few scattered giggles, he locked gazes with Combeferre and bit out, "Spoken words mean nothing. They aren't true speech any more than conscripts are true people." He waved a hand in the air, gesturing with the tufted tip of his braid as a look of disgust settled over his features. "None of it is real."

And therein lay the problem. Prouvaire truly believed that conscripts weren't true people -- as though being reprogrammed by the government to act as a mere drone for the system made you any less a person, as though it were your fault for being reprogrammed in the first place. Even people with overridden personalities, even people who'd been conditioned to act in a prescribed way, were still people… still worth saving. But psychics… psychics didn't see it that way. That was the problem with all of them. Conscripts weren't people to them, they were dolls. Dress them up, manipulate them, force them to commit acts they would never agree to, do whatever you wanted to them; it didn't matter to a psychic, because to a psychic, no one weak enough to be rewritten was worthy of being fought for. Combeferre kept his shudder at the thought purely internal. The entire mindset was abhorrent to him, but he fought hard to control his natural prejudices around Prouvaire, because Enjolras was right. They needed Prouvaire. And above and beyond even that, giving Prouvaire this chance to prove himself was at the very core of what Les Amis were fighting for. Whether Prouvaire made his skin crawl or not, he'd still won free of government control and volunteered his services to Les Amis in exchange for what little protection they could afford him. 

Enjolras had believed that there was something to be salvaged there, in spite of all of Prouvaire's years under the thumb of the government. Everyone deserved a chance to prove their worth, Enjolras said. But, Prouvaire… Combeferre couldn't shake the idea that Prouvaire was different. No psychic escaped the government. That was what all the propaganda said. The few who weren't created by government breeding programs were taken from their homes so early in life that they may as well have been. And the government warped all its psychics, training and subtle brainwashing turning them into megalomaniacs at best and outright sociopaths at worst. Prouvaire was no exception and proud of it. So, how could Enjolras trust him? How could Combeferre?

Combeferre wondered sometimes if it were even possible to learn to rewrite a person's entire personality _without_ becoming a sociopath. He wondered, too, if there was a genetic link between psychic ability and a penchant for sociopathy or if it was purely a connection brought about by nurturing -- or lack thereof -- but he'd never met a psychic who'd been untouched by the government, so who was to say? According to the government, such people didn't exist.

"Of course, they do, Combeferre. Don't play the simpleton. It doesn't become you."

Combeferre flinched back from the words, couldn't help it or rein in the reaction… knew it wouldn't have mattered even if he'd tried. Prouvaire would have read the lie of it and seemed to delight in catching Combeferre out on his prejudice. In response, Combeferre sighed, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sent up a swift prayer for patience. "Montparnasse doesn't count, Prouvaire. He's crazy as they come and I doubt it has anything to do with psychic ability. And I'll thank you kindly not to go snooping in my thoughts. We have an agreement."

Another braid-accompanied flick of the hand and Prouvaire rolled his eyes. "Well, it can hardly be termed snooping when you've strung it up in neon lights, can it? We're all tired." Prouvaire lifted a hand to his temple and pulled a face. "And with everyone so afraid and then so excited and so frantic and fucking hell, Combeferre, I came here because I thought for sure I'd find Courfeyrac with you, and _he_ at least knows how to shut himself up so he isn't screaming in my head with his every thought. I need some peace and quiet, right now. So, where the fuck is he?"

They were so busy glaring daggers at each other that the rest of their surroundings had faded into the background -- a dangerous habit in their line of work, even in a safe space such as this one -- and both men jumped when a third voice said, "Right behind you. Now, move and let me by. You're blocking traffic."

Prouvaire startled again as Courfeyrac pushed past him, an irritated scowl on his face, but settled quickly enough, eyes narrowing in concern at Courfeyrac's brusque words. He could be brash, certainly, had passion in spades, but it wasn't like Courfeyrac to be so rude, even to Prouvaire. Before Combeferre could even begin to puzzle out the undercurrents in the room, Courfeyrac whirled back to face Prouvaire, a blaze in his eyes, a snarl on his lips, and a hand braced against his head. "And I didn't invite you, so get the fuck out!"

One slow blink. One slow blink which led to a slow grin which Prouvaire quickly turned on Combeferre. "Well, well, well. That doesn't sound like a healthy level of frustration. Been a while? Trouble in paradise?" Turning that slow grin into a leer and waggling an eyebrow at Courfeyrac, Prouvaire added, "If he's leaving you unsatisfied, I'm always willing to take you back. You know my number, sweet cheeks."

Combeferre's breath caught as hazel eyes clashed with green. In spite of an awkward beginning, Courfeyrac and Prouvaire generally got on all right… but they got on better with R to act as a buffer. Only, R wasn't here and things were far too heated in this room, already. If they didn't back down on their own… no one needed to be cleaning up after that fight, tonight. Combeferre edged quietly back towards his desk, finger already searching for the button underneath that would alert Bahorel that security's presence was needed. Courfeyrac caught the movement, of course, shook his head almost imperceptibly. Of course, he wanted to handle this on his own. Heaven forbid he should ask for help. To Prouvaire, Courfeyrac said, "Call me sweet cheeks, again, and I'll--"

"You'll what?"

Damn it, the man was fast! Combeferre's heart slammed up into his throat, his finger stuttering against the panic button as he fought not to press it. Prouvaire was practically melded to Courfeyrac's front, one hand twisted in the material of his shirt, the other sliding upwards to cup his neck, lips split wide in a sneering grin, eyes dark with ruthless need and desire -- a desire to own, to possess, to _remake_.

Pulse racing over all the ways this could go wrong, Combeferre didn't even have to think twice. He hit the panic button, and at the same time he screamed as loudly as he could in the confines of his own head, ~ _Back off, Prouvaire!~_

It worked. Less than a minute later, Bahorel and Musichetta were in the room and Prouvaire was half-slumped against the wall and cursing Combeferre in every language he knew -- and he'd cracked open enough heads digging for foreign state secrets that he knew more than his fair share. Combeferre was sure his ears would be burning if he understood even half of them. Jerking his head at Prouvaire, Combeferre indicated that Bahorel and Musichetta should get him far, far away before something happened that they'd all regret.

Once they'd gone, the door closed behind them, and the room once more plunged into darkness save for the glow of the computer screen, Combeferre finally approached Courfeyrac. He was nearly doubled over, dragging in air in quiet gasps, eyes wide and horrified, pulse racing so hard and so fast that Combeferre could see the flutter of it at the base of his neck. He reached out a hand to gently trace the path Prouvaire's had almost taken: the chest, the shoulder, the ne--

Courfeyrac jerked away, eyes flaring impossibly wider as he stumbled back, bumped into the bed. He panted out, "Stay back." Closing his eyes tightly, Courfeyrac forced himself to take in a deeper breath, to attempt some measure of calm before speaking again. "I don't… Combeferre, I don't have time for this. Enjolras… it's worse than we thought. He doesn't remember anything since…" He sighed. "As near as R and I could figure, he's lost everything since a few months before Philadelphia." Voice dropping, he added, "He might have been tampered with."

Nodding slowly, Combeferre settled back, hitching himself up to perch on the corner of his desk. "So, that leaves you in charge until we find out."

Courfeyrac spread his hands in a wide shrug. "So, you see why I can't--"

Prouvaire wasn't the only one who could move quickly when he wanted. Though some part of him thrilled to the small, startled squeak Courfeyrac let out as Combeferre pulled him close, an arm around his waist and his other hand tangled in his hair, the rest of him simply felt sick at what he was about to do. There was a fine line with Courfeyrac in moments like these -- a very fine line between true consent and "consent" driven by overwhelming need -- and Combeferre sometimes wondered on which side of that line he was falling. He never could bring himself to ask… he was too afraid that he wouldn't like the answer. So, for now, he pushed the worry to the back of his mind. Yanking Courfeyrac's head back by the hair, he bent to press a hard kiss into the soft flesh below Courfeyrac's left ear before growling out, " _Make time._ "

Courfeyrac's breathing was made of nothing more than rapid, shallow, panting, now, and Combeferre could hear the panic in it, could feel Courfeyrac's desperation in the hard pounding of his heart. Pressing closer, Combeferre breathed again into that ear, willing Courfeyrac to understand, to give in, to not make this any harder on either of them than it needed to be. "I've been watching you. You've been on edge for days, fighting not to ask me for what you need. It can't continue." Feeling Courfeyrac's chest move against his, the change in the quality of those terrified pants as Courfeyrac attempted to speak, Combeferre pulled harder at the hair in his hand, pulled Courfeyrac's head back even further. "You said it yourself. With Enjolras out of commission for the foreseeable future, you're in charge. We can't afford to have you distracted by this. You need me. You've needed me for days, but you won't ask. _Why?_ " When Courfeyrac remained silent, Combeferre shook him once, thrilled a little again as Courfeyrac went with the motion, almost as limp as a rag doll in his arms. Almost… but not quite. Biting hard at Courfeyrac's ear lobe and wringing a ragged cry from that tightly locked throat, Combeferre said only two words more and they were words that brooked no argument.

"Ask. Me."

Courfeyrac tensed in Combeferre's arms, muscles trembling as he warred with himself over his answer. Combeferre could see it, the opposing needs battling it out behind his eyes… to give in to what he needed now, or to try to hold off further and risk breaking when it would be much worse.

…as if there were any real question of which he would choose.

Combeferre waited another heartbeat… two… three… and finally Courfeyrac pressed minutely closer to him and whimpered out a soft, "Please!" It was all the permission Combeferre needed. It was all the permission he dared wait for. Keeping his arm wound around Courfeyrac's waist, Combeferre let his other hand unclench from sweat-tangled curls and slowly drift down, ghosting over one cheek, then over chapped and bitten lips, to wrap gently around Courfeyrac's neck. As his hand closed over that tight column, shifted to cup it from the side, Courfeyrac drew in one last stuttering breath… and went limp, his eyes glazing over.

Combeferre laid Courfeyrac gently back against the bed, reverently kissing each piece of exposed skin as it was bared to his mouth. Quiet instructions were given and obeyed to assist Combeferre in divesting them both of their clothes, and Courfeyrac was quiescent through all of it, responding to the commanding tone in Combeferre's voice but offering no contribution of his own other than an occasional hitched breath when Combeferre's lips found a particularly sensitive spot, when his fingers twisted just so.

Courfeyrac would let Combeferre do anything to him like this: tie him up, beat him black and blue, hurt him, use him, whatever Combeferre chose. He would raise no objection, offer no safeword, no matter how he might wish to. It put a weight and responsibility on Combeferre's shoulders -- to push just far enough but not too far -- which, of late, he'd begun to weary of carrying. But no matter how weary he became, he would carry it, and he would do so uncomplaining, because his was the lesser burden here.

And because of that… No games tonight, Combeferre decided. He'd pushed hard enough just to get Courfeyrac this far. A few more softly murmured commands saw Courfeyrac on his elbows and knees before him, head bowed over his clasped hands. Combeferre opened him with fingers, and tongue, then again with fingers and a generous portion of lube. Obedient as he was being on the surface, Courfeyrac was tighter than usual tonight and Combeferre had no desire to hurt him.

Not tonight.

When Courfeyrac gave a soft, sobbing cry beneath him, Combeferre finally removed his fingers, replaced them with his cock, pushing in in one smooth, steady thrust until he was buried to the hilt. He stopped there, smoothing a hand down Courfeyrac's side as they gasped for air in unison, as Courfeyrac instinctively tightened against the intrusion, whimpering involuntarily as that worsened the pain. Combeferre held him through it, running his hand down Courfeyrac's side, then back up over his chest and belly, his other hand gripping Courfeyrac's hip to anchor them both. When both actions served to do nothing more than cause Courfeyrac to tense further, Combeferre left off his gentle caresses and sighed, muttering half to himself, "You would pick tonight to fight it, wouldn't you?" Leaning forwards, draping himself heavy and full of intent over Courfeyrac's back, Combeferre allowed a hint of a growl to color his words as he spoke them into Courfeyrac's ear. "I didn't want to hurt you. Not tonight. Not when I needed you as badly as you needed me. Damn it, Courfeyrac. You couldn't give us one - fucking - night?"

With those final words his only warning, Combeferre reached down and grabbed Courfeyrac's arms, yanking them from beneath him to force them up behind his back and using the new leverage to slam him face first into the pillows. The abrupt change in angle and diminished air had Courfeyrac jerking beneath him until Combeferre spoke again, the snap of a command in his voice. "Be _still_."

The effect was instantaneous. Courfeyrac froze, finally going limp again beneath him. Combeferre reached down to wrap his free hand around Courfeyrac's throat, using that none-too-gentle grip to pull him up onto his knees and against Combeferre's chest. At a hissed order from Combeferre, Courfeyrac reached his arms back, clasped his hands together behind Combeferre, locking him in place, the stretch of it forcing his back into a painful arch. Tightening his grip on Courfeyrac's throat and thus forcing his head back onto Combeferre's shoulder, Combeferre pressed his other hand low against Courfeyrac's belly bringing them together from shoulder to knee,

From this angle, it was difficult to move too much or too quickly without tumbling them both down, but Courfeyrac's cock was already leaking pre-cum. He'd held off too long and the brief struggle had brought him to the edge faster than he might have come otherwise. Combeferre briefly considered letting his hand drift lower, pinching off Courfeyrac's cock as he was already doing to his throat, but decided against it. He really hadn't set out to cause pain tonight, had wanted to get through one damned time in bed with Courfeyrac _without_ having to cause pain. Just because he'd lost that opportunity didn't mean he wanted to cause any more pain than necessary… and he _never_ wanted to cause Courfeyrac pain out of frustration or anger. Courfeyrac would know the difference, even as far gone as he was, and Combeferre would never forgive himself once he started down that road… and Courfeyrac wouldn't forgive him, either.

So, Combeferre contented himself with gently squeezing Courfeyrac's throat, allowing him increased air only to the timing of Combeferre's thrusts, his other hand remaining heavy on Courfeyrac's stomach but not drifting lower. Within a minute, Courfeyrac was gasping harder at the air he was allowed, his arms trembling as he fought to keep them clasped behind Combeferre. Combeferre recognized those signs, grateful that this hadn't lasted long, at least. As he squeezed Courfeyrac's neck one last time, he commanded, "Come for me… Now."

As Courfeyrac gave in, doing exactly as commanded, Combeferre released his neck completely, shifted that hand to wrap around Courfeyrac's chest to hold him up as he gasped his way through his orgasm, hands still tightly clasped behind Combeferre. As Courfeyrac trembled in his arms, exhausted from the force of his release, Combeferre slowly lowered them both to the mattress, careful to turn Courfeyrac's head to the side so he didn't smother himself as he kept his hands clasped. Combeferre settled between Courfeyrac's legs, nudged them forwards just enough to give him leverage, and then began rolling his hips, drilling down into Courfeyrac's finally completely pliant body, sparking often enough against his prostate for him to begin jerking and twitching beneath him from the overstimulation. He wouldn't come again tonight, not after such a struggle, and this was the closest to punishment Combeferre would allow himself to go for Courfeyrac having forced Combeferre to hurt him. Punishment by pleasure.

After just a few more thrusts, Combeferre found his own release. He lay there for just a moment, resting against Courfeyrac's back, still buried inside him, before leaning close to murmur, "Good boy. You've done well. You can let go." As Courfeyrac did just that, hands releasing at last from their death grip on each other, Combeferre rolled to the side, pulled out with a wince for how Courfeyrac jerked at the movement. He turned Courfeyrac into his chest, began softly stroking his hand down one flushed cheek and murmuring the words that always brought Courfeyrac out of these fugues... "You're safe, now. Come back to me. You're safe, now. Come back to me…"

Courfeyrac took longer to return to himself than usual. Combeferre blamed it on how long Courfeyrac had put off seeing to his own needs. He'd pushed himself too far this time, waited too long. Combeferre understood why, but that didn't mean he could let it continue. They'd have to talk. Later. When he'd been forgiven for pushing something Courfeyrac had obviously not wanted pushed. Seeing awareness only slowly begin to return to Courfeyrac's eyes, Combeferre cursed quietly at the haze of confusion and the hint of fear which lingered once that awareness returned to bruised and hollow eyes. At his next round of repetition, Courfeyrac asked simply, "We're… finished?"

Combeferre would have been a fool to not notice the way that tension returned with awareness, the way muscles began coiling like a spring ready for release. At Combeferre's solemn nod, Courfeyrac couldn't get out of his arms fast enough. He always had such a short time to enjoy the moment before reality settled back in, before the shame of what he'd done forced any thought of enjoyment from his mind… before he began to dread the next time Courfeyrac would need him thus. Tonight was no different. And as he listened, the quiet sounds of retching began emerging from the toilet, then eventually the sounds of the shower turning on followed. As the gust of steam billowed into the room indicating the water had been turned on far too hot and then kept that way, Combeferre forced down the need to be violently ill himself. He let himself wonder, once again, which side of the line he was on… and with a sinking feeling realized that he didn't have to wonder, at all.

Curling up on his side, facing away from the toilet, Combeferre pulled his knees to his chest and for a moment, while there was no one there to bear witness… he cried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** This chapter is completely unbeta'ed and my apologies for that. I had a rough weekend and I needed to feel like I'd done something productive and I'd had this sitting on my hard drive almost ready for posting for days. Any and all mistakes are purely mine.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The halls were dark, silent in a way that left R distinctly uncomfortable. With the dim lighting, the covered windows, the way people flitted by each other, sometimes barely making eye contact before moving on -- it felt like a house in mourning. Word had filtered down by now, revealing an ugly truth, a fear with which they'd never had to contend: Enjolras might have been tampered with. It would have been devastating had it been any in the inner circle, but for it to have been Enjolras… that was a horror which didn't even bear contemplation. Enjolras was the light of Les Amis. Without that light, this safe house became a home of the dead… and the dying.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _March 21, 2014:_** ...I should maybe just learn to stop making promises of faster updates. -.-;;; Because whenever I do, things get unexpectedly hectic in my life and prevent me from keeping that promise. *sigh* Anyway, I'd been trying to make a push to finish FYFM before coming back to this, but FYFM has become somewhat... reticent of late. And since I feel like crud, Muet is more to my current mindset, so I'm just going to go with what works and be grateful. ^_~ Anyway, this was written, edited and beta'ed purely by me (because my lovely beta has not one but TWO of my stories on her desk at the moment and adding this one just didn't seem right)... in the throws of bronchitis and some very interesting meds. So. Uh. Yeah. If you find any truly hilarious mistakes, once you get done laughing, please come tell me? Thanks! ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/80274322116/muet-chapter-3-the-halls-were-dark-silent-in).
> 
> * * *

The halls were dark, silent in a way that left R distinctly uncomfortable. With the dim lighting, the covered windows, the way people flitted by each other, sometimes barely making eye contact before moving on -- it felt like a house in mourning. Word had filtered down by now, revealing an ugly truth, a fear with which they'd never had to contend: Enjolras might have been tampered with. It would have been devastating had it been any in the inner circle, but for it to have been Enjolras… that was a horror which didn't even bear contemplation. Enjolras was the light of Les Amis. Without that light, this safe house became a home of the dead… and the dying.

"You look like you could use a drink, my friend."

R turned, took in the silhouette of the long-haired figure hunched over the table in the darkened kitchen. Snorting softly, he walked over to claim the chair across from that dejected figure. R stood over him for a moment, tired gaze meeting gleaming green eyes in the dark, before reaching out a wordless hand for the bottle he held. "You don't know the half of it."

Prouvaire's teeth flashed white in the dim light of the room and he tapped his head with one finger, even as he passed over the bottle with the other hand. "Don't I?"

R flipped Prouvaire off as he tipped the bottle to his lips, liquid fire scorching its way down his ravaged throat straight into an empty stomach. He swallowed until the room spun, swallowed until he choked, gasping at air that fought to make it past the liquid stream. When he lowered the bottle, he held up a hand to Prouvaire and shook his finger back and forth. "You told me once that you couldn't read my stubborn noggin past what I was willing to let slip. That change and you didn't tell me or should I be telling you to pull the other one a while?"

Grasping R's hand tightly in his, Prouvaire let out a delighted peal of laughter. "Oh, my friend, I've missed you. This place is too lonely by half with you gone. No one else here has any sense of humor. Please tell me that you'll be staying in-house for a while this time?"

R passed the bottle back over and shrugged as Prouvaire released him to take another drink. "With Enjolras the way he is, I doubt we'll have much choice. Combeferre and Courfeyrac will want him where they can keep an eye on him in case he's been tampered with."

Prouvaire snorted and rolled his eyes. "' _In case_ he's been tampered with…' Good grief, R, are you listening to yourself? Is there really any doubt? If there was, don't you think they'd have asked me to clear it up by now? Isn't this exactly why I'm here?"

R's gaze met flat green eyes over the table and gently pried the bottle loose from Prouvaire's clenched hand to take another pull. Being the only psychic in the inner circle, of course Combeferre and Courfeyrac should have come to Prouvaire to vet Enjolras' state of mind. That they hadn't was telling. They had good reason for their mistrust, R couldn't deny that, but it made things… well. It made things sticky and complicated without Enjolras' insistence on assumed innocence of intent to smooth the way. Judging by the nasty sneer overtaking Prouvaire's face as R followed his own thoughts to his conclusion, Prouvaire knew the answer to his own question. R sighed. "I thought I told you to stay away from them when you don't have Enjolras or I here to act as a buffer. What did you do to antagonize them this time?"

Prouvaire pulled a face at that, then yanked the bottle out of R's hand and pushed away from the table to stand and begin pacing. As always, R's breath caught at the stalking wildness of those movements, at the sense of violence so barely restrained behind a veneer of civility. Prouvaire was beautiful, and every movement, every thought, every expression gave lie to the delicate package it was presented in. Prouvaire was all savage grace and strength… quite the opposite of R's rough crudeness. 

Prouvaire turned on him, then, snarling. "You knock that shit off around me, R. We have an agreement. You keep that foul mouth of yours off yourself in my mindshot or I take it out on that poison's source, OK? Don't think I won't do it just because he loved you once. Don't think I won't do it just because he's vulnerable, now." Dark humor flitted in to fill the edges of Prouvaire's smile as he said, "It would be so easy, now, too… so easy to make him yours, again. I could feed him to you on a silver platter, R. All it would take was one small… _push_ …"

R was up out of his seat, over the table, and across the room in one smooth motion, knife out and flashing by Prouvaire's throat as R pinned him to the wall. Prouvaire laughed in his face, arched his back off the wall to push himself closer. "Is that all you've got, R? Is that all your partner's right to self-determination is worth?" Reaching out a hand, Prouvaire hooked his fingers into the belt loops of R's jeans, pulled him in closer until R's leg was wedged firmly between his and the knife could have just as easily cut both their throats. Prouvaire rolled his hips, eyes darkening at the soft moan R couldn't quite keep behind his teeth. " _Fuck_ , R… come on."

The knife flashed, disappeared back into the sheath from whence it had come too quickly for anyone to track the motion. Not even Prouvaire knew where R kept all of his knives, and R intended to keep it that way. He pressed closer, then, pinned Prouvaire to the wall just as he'd pinned Enjolras not even six hours before, teeth taking little nips and bites along the column of his bared neck and the underside of his jaw. Prouvaire groaned and slid his arm around R's back to pull his tee-shirt free of his jeans, slid his hand quickly down past the hemline to squeeze at the muscles of his ass. R let out another choked moan at that, winced at the rough, distorted sound of it, before turning to claim Prouvaire's lips.

There was no love here, never had been. His friendship with Prouvaire had been one of necessity from the start -- the necessity of having someone to communicate with who wasn't Enjolras, the necessity of having someone who understood what it was like to live with painful secrets, who wouldn't judge him unworthy because of his past. Prouvaire was all of those things for R, and he'd tried to be all of those things for Prouvaire, as well. Expedient. Necessary. Prouvaire had kept him sane at a time when he thought for sure he'd go mad. It saddened him still that that he hadn't been able to keep Prouvaire from the same brink, but, this… this was something else entirely. This wasn't friendship or love… this was a distraction gambit, nothing more.

R tore away from the temptation of Prouvaire's mouth, panting harshly as he shot back, "That's not an answer to everything, Prouvaire. What the hell did you do?"

But Prouvaire would not be put off. Inhibitions loosened by alcohol and tolerance worn to the nub by the upheaval at the safe house today, Prouvaire had nothing of patience left in him for games or reticence. At R's rejection, he let out a scream of pure rage and flung the bottle at his head. 

When the bottle left his hand, R had all of two seconds to make a choice. He could duck and let the bottle crash against the wall, bringing company and all kinds of unwanted questions crashing down on their heads with it, or…

…or if you're going to go out, you do it with a bang.

R flung a hand out -- an unnecessary motion which did nothing but cater to his own flair for dramatics -- and halted the bottle mid-spin. As the bottle stopped, slowly righted itself midair, and drifted back to rest on the table, the rage drained from Prouvaire's eyes to be replaced by an unholy glee. He laughed, high and a little frantic… and not quite sane. "R… oh, R… if you only knew. I could go to _hell_ for all the secrets I keep. My secrets, your secrets, Courfeyrac's secrets, the secrets of the whole of the world are trapped up here inside my head, burning little holes in my skull where they spin, spin, spin."

Hands burying themselves in his hair, Prouvaire let out another laugh, turned to press his face into the wall. "Secrets, lies, truths, all the petty things that make up a person, a _life_. What difference does it make what I _did_?" He spat that last word as though it tasted vile. "I meant to _help_. But, no one wants my help. No one wants me to do what they've brought me here to do-- R!" That laughter picked up again, higher in tone, as he hissed his next words directly into R's mind. "I'm a weapon without a hand to wield me. I'm a missile without a target. I'm completely idle here -- _useless_ \-- and have no purpose but what I make for myself, and I'm not even allowed _that_." Spinning around, he launched himself at R, beat his hands against his chest before clenching them in the fabric of R's shirt and turning pleading eyes upwards. "R… make use of me. Even if just for this. Please."

R slumped, let his head lower to rest against Prouvaire's for a moment as he puzzled through the outraged rhetoric to find the truth beneath. "…you went after Courfeyrac again, didn't you?" Sighing softly, R wrapped his arms around Prouvaire. "You never learn. He's afraid of you… _and with good reason_ , Prouvaire. You all but admitted to his face that given too long a temptation, you'd take him apart just to see if you could. He's already weak and he knows it. Do you honestly think he'll ever let you get close enough to have that chance?"

Prouvaire shifted in R's hold, tensed momentarily before making a disgruntled noise into his chest and relaxing. "You're one to talk. If you had half the balls you claimed to have, then you'd be back in Enjolras' bed right now, making up for years of lost time." Leaning back, his lips slid up into a sneer. "In fact, I'll bet our high and mighty leader even offered. I'll bet he has no idea why you turned him down. Idiot."

R rolled his eyes. "Psycho."

Prouvaire scoffed as he stepped back. "Just so long as we both know where we stand, I suppose." Eyeing both R and the bottle, Prouvaire quirked an eyebrow and braced a hand on his hip. "I suppose a little work-off-the-frustration sex is out of the question, then."

"Do you honestly think it would help?"

Green eyes met blue for the barest of moments and it was Prouvaire who looked away first. "There's not enough in that bottle to get us both drunk. I'll go get another. Maybe two."

As Prouvaire drifted off down the hall, R allowed himself to slump against the table, allowed himself just one minute to appreciate how badly his hands were shaking, before lowering one to the table to lift the bottle to his lips and take a deep drink. He couldn't afford to be scared -- not then, not now. And, may all the Powers help him, he trusted Prouvaire. Then again… he had no choice.

* * *

The next morning dawned far too early for R. In spite of Prouvaire's undeterred attempts at persuasion, R had sought out his coldly solitary bed in the very small hours of the morning, tossing turning through what little remained of the dark. Only the promise of coffee got him out of bed, and only a niggling worry for how Enjolras would react if R didn't beat him to the meeting room got R out of his clothes from the day before and into relatively fresher ones. He didn't bother with a shower. With his head feeling as though it had swelled to the size of a watermelon, he was in no mood to be sociable. Snarling at his face in the mirror, R thought, perhaps the others would keep away with their good intentions if he smelled.

No such luck.

Bossuet was on him the second R reached the meeting room. He had a cup of coffee (black with a dollop of honey, just how R liked it) in one hand and a single piece of toast smeared liberally with strawberry jam in the other. There was a soft smile on his face as R relieved him of his burdens. He didn't say anything. He didn't have to. Even before Philadelphia, R hadn't been one for conversation in the morning, and he and Bossuet had long since worked out how to meld their morning routines without the need for speech. Nodding his head and saluting Bossuet with his coffee, R moved past him into the room.

Their meeting room had been a dining room once. The wallpaper had been grand, in rich tones of red and gold that had driven R to attempt their recreation more than once. There was a plush carpet underfoot, a heavy mahogany table worthy of a king. For all R knew, it might have graced the dining room of one. Enjolras alone knew to whom this house had belonged before Les Amis took it over, though, and he had never disclosed that information. It was just one more mystery, R supposed.

This grand dining room was an all-purpose room, now. They ate here, they planned here, they debriefed here. Sometimes they even slept here. R took his customary seat to the left of Enjolras' spot at the head of the table, looked briefly around for the man who usually sat at his own left. It didn't take long to spot him. Prouvaire always stood out. He was in the corner of the room, now, helping himself to a cup of tea and flirting with Bahorel, showing disturbingly few signs of his indulgences of the night before. Not for the first time, R wondered exactly where he put it all. Prouvaire caught his eye from across the room and winked, then turned back to talking with Bahorel.

Bossuet completed the seating arrangement on this side of the long table and was deep in conference with Joly at its foot, one or the other occasionally lifting their eyes to glance at R or the door. At one point, Joly caught R's eye and moved to rise from his seat, but Bossuet restrained him with a simple headshake. Joly rolled his eyes but complied with the unspoken request. R could only be grateful. He wasn't up for Joly's tender prying. Not now. Not when he had no positive change to report.

As head of security, Musichetta would have taken the seat on Joly's other side, but she was still on shift from the night before. That left four empty chairs at the table -- Enjolras', Combeferre's seat beside his, Courfeyrac's beside that and the seat which Bahorel and Feuilly shared beside that. It wasn't unusual for Feuilly to be late, wasn't unusual for him to be absent completely, these days. He was Enjolras' eyes and ears about the city. He was their link to the very people they were trying to help. It was a rare luxury that had him available for early morning strategy meetings. He would report in when he could, however he could, and they were invariably grateful for his contributions, but they couldn't rely upon his presence with regularity. R had been such an agent once -- as in tune with the city's underworld as Feuilly was with its working class. Those days were long over now.

Another few minutes passed with those about the table making small talk and determinedly working their way through their first doses of caffeine when their next member arrived. It was Combeferre… and he was alone. He moved straight to his seat, bypassing the communal breakfast table altogether, and sat, listlessly shuffling his papers and refusing to meet anyone's eyes.

It didn't take a psychic to decode that body language.

But had that not been clear enough, then when Courfeyrac came in nearly five minutes later and took Musichetta's empty place, leaving two entire seats between he and Combeferre, R had all the evidence he needed to know exactly how wrong things had gone last night… and to know that he and Enjolras weren't the only ones they'd gone wrong for. 

Enjolras was the last to show, moving confidently to his place at the head of the table as though nothing had changed. The beauty of it was that for him… nothing had… until Bahorel and Prouvaire took the two empty seats between Combeferre and Courfeyrac. Enjolras' eyes narrowed. That wasn't right and he had to know it wasn't right. He also knew, however, that there were two years of time missing from his own mind, and he didn't have all the facts. Courfeyrac had given him the bare bones of what he'd missed the night before, but he'd carefully glossed over just as many things as he'd explained. Seeing Enjolras' frustration building and seeing him turn towards Courfeyrac with the intent of asking the obvious question, R clamped a hand hard on Enjolras' wrist.

"Don't."

Enjolras turned towards him, quick as a shot and hissed back, "Stay out of it, R."

"No." Meeting Enjolras' eyes head on, R tightened his grip. "Neither of them will thank you for interfering, especially in such a public venue. Their issues are known quantities. We work around them as best we can. You'll learn to. You did once before."

Backing down wasn't in Enjolras' nature, but his lack of knowledge about the current situation was making him more cautious than usual. R never would have gotten away with checking him like this in front of the others if it wasn't. Leaning over towards R, Enjolras said, "Are they always like this, now? What happened? Courfeyrac didn't say…?"

R sighed, shook his head. "No. They aren't always like this. Just… some mornings are worse than others. And, Enjolras… that's all any of us will say on the subject until Courfeyrac gives permission otherwise. So, don't pry, OK? Don't put any of us in that position."

Enjolras didn't answer, but R wasn't really expecting him to. As Enjolras turned to add milk and sugar to his coffee, R turned his attention to Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac's hands were steady around his mug, but they were pressed close and firm against the sides, not making a move to lift it even once. Normally the focal point of all their morning socializing, Courfeyrac was conspicuously silent today. Withdrawn. Even Bossuet couldn't coax him into eye contact. Well. Combeferre had pushed, then. It happened sometimes when Courfeyrac turned stubborn. Normally Combeferre had the luxury of waiting him out, but with Enjolras as he was, Combeferre must have been feeling more pressured than usual and decided to act, consequences be damned.

Because things weren't complicated enough, R thought.

At that, Courfeyrac finally raised his gaze from reading the tea leaves in his mug, or whatever he was doing instead of interacting with the others, and met R's eyes. There was a sad sort of acceptance there, one with which R was all too familiar, sadly enough. He saw it in the mirror on far too many mornings. R offered a sympathetic smile. Courfeyrac gave it back only half-heartedly… but it was enough. Visibly taking strength from that eye contact, Courfeyrac took a deep breath, collected himself, and made eye contact with everyone else at the table, in turn. By the time he'd reached Combeferre the room had gone silent, holding its collective breath for what might be said. 

Of course, in the end, no audible words passed between them, but R didn't think he was fooling himself into seeing a slight softening in Courfeyrac's eyes as they landed on Combeferre. Forgiveness, then. That was good. Because, powers help them all if _that_ situation ever fell apart beyond repairing. Prouvaire had likened the pair of them once to a time bomb sitting in their midst just waiting to go off… and fuck his perception, but the man wasn't wrong.

By the time R finished his woolgathering, Courfeyrac was already speaking, filling the others in on what had happened yesterday, with Combeferre and Enjolras adding their own commentary at appropriate intervals -- Combeferre from the security footage and Enjolras relaying for R. It wasn't until then that R fully appreciated how well Enjolras was handling this particular upheaval. They took it for granted most days -- Enjolras' minor receiving telepathic ability -- the ability that let R speak to him as though nothing had changed. He'd not known he had any psychic ability before then, had never even had cause to suspect it was so, not even enough to register on the government screening tests. It was just enough to let him hear R's thoughts when they were within distance for routine speech. It was just enough to keep R from being completely isolated from conversation outside of Prouvaire. And it had come on Enjolras suddenly, exactly when he'd needed it, exactly when _they_ had needed it. Enjolras had had a reason to need to speak to him, then. 

They'd still been together.

One more regret, tossed onto the pile with a thousand others. Enjolras hadn't understood when R had walked away last night, had thought him just being respectful of Enjolras' need to get his head together. He'd learn. R wasn't exactly all that eager to tell him. Prouvaire was right on that, at least. He was a coward.

Let Enjolras live in delusional bliss a little while longer. After all, he was the one who'd walked away.

When Courfeyrac finished filling everyone in, there was an uproar of questions. Had they achieved contact? Had they acquired the intelligence they'd been after? And the question of the day -- was Enjolras' lost memory a side-effect of the drugs he'd been given or a sign of something more sinister?

Inevitably, once that question was asked, all eyes turned to Prouvaire. The only way to know for sure if a psychic had tampered with one's mind was to have a psychic one trusted examine the suspect mind for said tampering. The difficulty here was that Prouvaire wasn't precisely trusted -- at least not by any but R, who had no choice, and Enjolras, who was in no position to impose that trust. And riding on the heels of however Prouvaire had interfered between them last night, neither Courfeyrac nor Combeferre was going to let him anywhere near their leader's head without a knock-down, drag-out fight. Which left them back at square one.

It was Bahorel who finally said what they were all thinking. "We're missing the obvious solution. Enjolras, if we can't confirm or deny that you've been conditioned, we'll have to eject you from our confidence, carry on as if you weren't here, for now. It isn't safe to act any other way until we find someone else to vet your mind."

Enjolras didn't like it, of course, argued vehemently against it. "You can't do this. You _need_ me. You can't just cast me aside like I'm a different man than I was yesterday."

In the midst of the table-pounding, half-shouted argument which followed, R was the only one to notice Courfeyrac get to his feet and back away from the near-melee, eyes wild and hands shaking as they hadn't been all morning. So, he was the only one who noticed when Courfeyrac suddenly glanced down at the mug clenched in those shaking hands… and then threw it as hard as he could against the opposite wall.

Amongst the shards of ceramic… silence fell.

Into that silence, Courfeyrac said simply, "We can, and we will, Enjolras. Because you may well _be_ a different man today than you were yesterday. It could happen to any of us and we'd never know on our own; we learned that the hard way after Philadelphia. That's why we go out in pairs. That's why we don't separate from our partners." And if Combeferre flinched at the way Courfeyrac spat that last word out, again R's were the only eyes no so fixed on Courfeyrac as to notice… and he said nothing. "However it happened, you and R got separated yesterday. There are _hours_ unaccounted for -- hours in which they could have managed any manor of reconditioning on you. We have to protect the cause. You, of all people, should know that." Voice dropping into a whisper, he added, "And you, of all people, should know what it costs me to say that… but you don't, because you don't remember, and we don't know why. The least you can do is not make this any harder on us than it already is." With those last words, he stepped back from the table, met Enjolras' eyes for a solid moment… and then fled the meeting room.

"Well. That's that, then." Enjolras stood, his own shaking hands braced on the table in front of him, his eyes hooded as he stared down at his hands. "If that is your will then, though I don't agree with it, I will accept it. I may have founded this group, but I am not a dictator. Though I will say that I am disappointed that in two years, the rest of you still don't trust Prouvaire in such matters. That's why he's _here_. That's why I brought him in to begin with. If you've forgotten that much in two years… then how can you truly comment on what I've forgotten in the last twenty-four hours without making hypocrites of yourselves?" Taking a deep breath, he stepped back from the table. "I would encourage you to think on that."

Just before he made it out the door, R stood. "Enjolras?"

Enjolras snorted out a bitter laugh under his breath as he answered that doubly-unspoken question. "I'm not going to do anything stupid, R. I just need some time to think… no matter how much you all seem to believe I can't be trusted to do exactly that."

This time, when he moved to go, no one stayed his leaving.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once they'd both taken generous drinks, Enjolras took a deep breath and said, "You want to tell me about Philadelphia."
> 
> Courfeyrac's lips pulled back into a brief laugh that turned quickly into a snarl. He shook his head, placed his wineglass carefully down on the table and pushed himself out of his chair to drop down beside Enjolras on the bed. Before either Enjolras or R could even begin to figure out what he was about, he said, "No… I want to _show_ you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _July 12, 2014:_** I am so, so sorry that this took so long. I originally had this chapter written several months ago, but when I ran it by my beta, she pointed out several serious problems in story structure that were based on the fact that she needed background information that I hadn't been planning to share for several more chapters. Obviously that meant it had to be shared sooner and I needed to restructure the entire plot so that it wouldn't seem contrived. O_o;;; Then I had a massive workload hit at the end of the semester and a serious case of writer's block which followed hard on that. I've been fighting it for the better part of the last three months. SO. For whatever reason, it decided to break tonight and it decided to break on Muet and I'M NOT QUESTIONING IT.
> 
> *coughs* Anyway, for those of you who appreciate the extra warning, this is another of those chapters that earns the rating and warning. Definite noncon in this chapter. Just as a heads up. *nodnod* And it's late and I think that's enough rambling. ^_~
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/91612570367/muet-chapter-4-once-theyd-both-taken-generous).
> 
> * * *

When Enjolras left the meeting, it didn’t take him long to realize that being relieved of command was anything but a relief. Any of the score of things he could think of which should have needed his attention were now things to which he could not be privy. And so he stood in the hall, watching the seconds tick by on the hallway clock, unsure what to do with himself now that his time was nothing but leisure. He was worse than useless right now; he was a liability. All because he'd been stripped of his memory -- and not even all of his memory… just enough to ensure that his friends would be so occupied with dealing with him that they would ignore whatever else needed doing. Oh… whoever had done this had been clever. Deviously clever.

So, Enjolras couldn't help anyone. All he could do was stay out of the way. It galled, knowing that he was stuck in this tailspin of uselessness, but that was pride speaking. He'd set up Les Amis with the intention that no one person be indispensable. And so it was. His friends would carry on without him, and Enjolras just had to accept that.

He started walking, following familiar corridors that now felt ominous and strange. Things had happened in these halls, in these rooms -- two years worth of events of which Enjolras had no memory. He felt adrift, unsettled. He'd never expected to feel thus in his own home. He let his feet wander, let them take him where they would. He had nowhere to be, nothing to do. It had been years since he'd last been this idle -- since before he'd started this silent war with the government. Since his school days. His parents had been alive then.

When Enjolras finally stopped wandering, he was unsurprised at where his feet had brought him. With its walls made of nothing more substantial than glass, this sunroom drove Musichetta to distraction. She'd pointedly suggested, more than once, that they demolish it, that they at least take down the glass and put up real walls. It was too much of a risk, she said, too much of a liability, to keep it. Like Enjolras was, now.

Feeling more fragile than he had since walking out of the club last night, Enjolras walked over to his father's old armchair -- still plush and soft and deep, after all these years -- and curled up on the ottoman. He'd spend hours sitting here, listening to his father's deep baritone and his mother's husky alto discussing the news of the day, making their own plans to do what they could to help. Things had been better then. The government hadn't made such use -- such _abuse_ \-- of its psychics, then. Or perhaps they had simply kept it quieter. Who knew how long the general populace had truly been under their thumb? Perhaps they always had been.

Enjolras had no idea how long he sat there, had completely lost track of the hour by the time a quiet voice interrupted his reverie. "When Combeferre told me he didn't know where you'd gone, I thought I might find you here. Musichetta will have fits if she finds out."

Enjolras looked up, then, to meet a soft pair of brown eyes watching him sympathetically from under a fall of hair so dark it was almost black. Those tired eyes sat in a weather-tanned face that held the kindest smile Enjolras had ever known. "Feuilly…?"

Feuilly shrugged, took a step further into the room. "I came in to report. They told me what happened. I realize that this is most likely a stupid question, but… are you OK?"

Enjolras let out a harsh bark of laughter at that and shook his head. "No. No, I'm not OK. I feel like a stranger in my own head, like I can't trust my own thoughts. I just… I just wish I _knew_."

Feuilly crossed the room, settled down in the armchair and lifted an eyebrow. When Enjolras nodded, Feuilly picked up his feet to place them gently in Enjolras' lap, then allowed himself to sink back into the cushions of the chair with a satisfied sigh. He didn't speak again, not yet, but Enjolras was used to that. Feuilly was always cautious; he never spoke unless he had something useful with which to interrupt the silence. Enjolras had long suspected that that caution, that reticence, was left over from a childhood which had left far too many scars, but it was an unspoken rule among Les Amis that if information about a person's past wasn't offered, you didn't pry. In a world where privacy was a luxury many could not afford, it made one feel wealthy, indeed, to have a few secrets. And Enjolras was content in that silence, enjoyed the feeling that he didn't have to fill it if he didn't want to.

It was nearly ten minutes later, so said the old grandfather clock in the corner, before Feuilly spoke again. "Why not have Prouvaire look for tampering?"

Enjolras turned to look at Feuilly, eyes full of misery. "No one but I and R trust him. And there would be no one to verify if _he_ tampered with my mind. And he could. Clearly my shields aren't as foolproof as I thought they were."

Feuilly nodded. "No one's shields are as foolproof as they like to think -- even Prouvaire's. There's always a more powerful psychic out there somewhere. And your shields are further weakened because you leave them permeable to R. Such kindness does you credit… but it leaves you vulnerable. It makes one wonder…" He trailed off.

Enjolras leaned in closer but said nothing. Feuilly didn't offer up theories until he'd thought them through. When it became apparent that Feuilly was going to mull over that thought for some time before sharing it, Enjolras settled back. He'd learned not to push, had learned to give Feuilly time to think. He hadn't always known to do so, had missed out on some of his finer contributions in the beginning for believing that that slow way of thinking meant he was dim-witted. He now knew that it meant nothing of the kind. Feuilly simply processed information differently than most. In the old days, they'd had a word for it. When psychics became more commonplace, the word was lost, irrelevant, because parents would simply take such children to a psychic to be reconditioned... normalized. They didn't care if the removal of those abstract thinkers made the populace that much more pliable, that much more open to being controlled.

But, Feuilly was an orphan. No one knew where he was from and he'd been so young when he lost his parents that he didn't remember, either. He was so desperate to fit in with every foster family he was placed with that he'd picked up accents and mannerisms like a sponge as a child, to the point where he didn't even remember his original language. But it would all come to nothing the moment he started struggling in school. No foster family would waste the time or the money to have an unwanted child reconditioned to make his life easier.

Thank goodness for that.

Feuilly had fallen through the cracks in the system, staying himself, processing difficulties and all. In the end, that had served him well as a spy and informant, and his different way of looking at things also meant that he often saw solutions when the rest of the inner circle saw only problems. Enjolras couldn't care less about his difficulties. He'd put Feuilly's ability to solve problems against Combeferre's any day… and that was saying plenty.

When Feuilly finally spoke, his words were accompanied by a deeply drawn scowl. "Enjolras… is there any chance that someone could have known about your receiving ability before you did?"

Enjolras frowned. "I don't see how. Variations on telepathy are so rare as to be practically nonexistent in the population. Most people believe that other abilities are a myth, and the government encourages that belief to the extent of killing any wild talents they do happen to find. I'd never seen or heard of any psychic abilities outside of straight telepathy until I turned up with one, myself. I can't imagine that most people would even think to look, much less find it if it were latent. Why?"

Feuilly brought his fingers together into a steepled position, rested them against his lips for a while before speaking again. "Suppose someone did know. Suppose someone found out. Maybe this was the endgame to Philadelphia all along -- to take you out of the game."

Enjolras' breath caught. It made a twisted sort of sense. If one supposed that someone had discovered Enjolras' ability before he had, if one supposed that R’s injury and Enjolras’ resulting need to communicate with him were the impetus for Enjolras' latent ability to blossom… and if one supposed further that that constantly open line of communication would weaken once impenetrable natural shields… then it wasn't so hard to believe that his current situation, the fact that he was well and truly on the bench, could have been the purpose behind what had happened in Philadelphia. As Enjolras' eyes widened, Feuilly nodded. Enjolras let out the breath he'd been holding, said quietly, "Combeferre thinks yesterday was an inside job."

Feuilly nodded again. "So he told me."

"Which makes this possibility that much more horrifying. It would mean that we've had a mole in our midst for…" Enjolras trailed off, overwhelmed by the ramifications of it.

"…two years," Feuilly said. "At least last two years, possibly longer. Enjolras… if I'm right…"

"If you're right, then we are in deep, deep trouble. Because the only person who could easily ferret out who that mole is is trusted by no one." Enjolras let his head fall into his hands and let out a soft moan. "This is not good."

Letting out a soft laugh as his head dropped back into the cushions, Feuilly said, "That is the understatement of the century, my friend. What are you going to do about it?"

Enjolras was already shaking his head. "I'm going to do nothing. For now. And so are you. This… if you're right in your suppositions, we can't afford to tip anyone off." He paused, then cursed under his breath. "Damn it. We can't even afford to _think_ about it. Not with Prouvaire around. Because what if he--"

"No. Prouvaire is the only person it _can't_ be. His very survival is dependent on us being able and willing to hide him from the government. He's _terrified_ of being found out, of being taken back. He told me once -- when he'd had a bit too much to drink -- that he'd sooner join Patron-Minette than submit himself to government handling, again. And considering Patron-Minette… Enjolras, there are reasons that their pet psychics go mad. The things they make them do…" He shuddered. "You can't be forced to do those things to another human being on a regular basis without going mad with it, not unless you're mad already."

"You're right." Enjolras sighed, raised a hand to rub at his temple. "It's times like these that I almost sympathize with how the government started down this road. It's so easy, so tempting, to ask Prouvaire to just… peek. No one would ever need to know, and I'd get the information I needed to find whoever is behind this. But that's exactly the kind of underhanded oppression that we're fighting against." Enjolras took another minute to rub his hands over his face, trying to massage the tension away before it became a murderous headache.

A few minutes later, Feuilly's feet lifted off of his lap and a pair of hands descended onto his shoulders, began helping him massage the tension away. Feuilly's voice was close, nearly in his ear when he spoke again. "You'll think of something. You always do." And just when Enjolras began to relax… those hands were joined by a pair of lips which began pressing soft kisses into the back of his neck.

"Wait… _what_???" Enjolras leapt from the ottoman, whipped around to face Feuilly, mouth agape. "What… what the hell was that?"

Feuilly merely arched an eyebrow. "Huh. So you forgot that, too. OK. No worries. Won't happen again. Come back." He then patted the ottoman.

"Oh no. Not until you explain what that was!" Enjolras willed his heart to cease its desperate battering thrum against his ribcage. "Nothing you could say would convince me that in the last two years, I've started cheating on R. _Nothing._ "

Feuilly's second eyebrow slowly lifted to join the first in rising. "Enjolras… in the first place, you and R haven't been together for over a yea-- mój Boze. You didn't know that. You didn't know that you weren't together anym-- I am so sorry. I shouldn't have assumed… I am _so_ sorry." Feuilly's cheeks turned a deep shade of red beneath his tan when he blushed.

Enjolras sank back to the ottoman, felt the blood drain from his own face as he took in the meaning of those words. Quietly, almost to himself, he said, "So _that's_ why he didn't stay last night. I wondered, but… he didn't explain, and I couldn't ask, and… Feuilly, what _happened_?"

His blush finally fading, Feuilly shrugged. "What always happens when disaster strikes. You felt guilty that he was injured. You felt unworthy of his love and continued devotion. So, you distanced yourself. And you know as well as I that you like to keep your own counsel. You never told him why. You just let the guilt eat away at you both, in equal measures. He, naturally, blamed himself for your distance, began drinking again, in quantities and frequencies that I haven't seen him do since he first joined us. You became disgusted with him for the drinking and further disgusted with yourself for bringing him to it… and that was that. He was done with you and you with him. How you maintained your working partnership, I will never be able to understand, but I respect you both for it. I don't know that I could have done so under similar circumstances."

Enjolras whimpered, lowered his head into his hands once more. "I feel as though I went to sleep one night and woke trapped in my own worst nightmare."

Feuilly reached out a hand, began rubbing gentle circles on Enjolras' back. "In a very real way… you did. As do all whose minds have been tampered with. We'll fix this, Enjolras. We'll find a way to get your memory back, we'll find a way to clear you of suspicion of any tampering but the memory loss, and we will find this mole of ours and bring them to heel. But, as for what went wrong between you and R… Enjolras, only you can fix that."

Finally raising his head, Enjolras met Feuilly's gaze head on. "Then it's as good as fixed. I don't care what happened to shove my head so far up my ass that I'd let my own doubts destroy what we had. Now that it's been forcibly removed, damned if I'm not going use that clear-headedness to fix this."

Feuilly leaned forwards, planted a soft kiss on Enjolras' forehead. As Enjolras blushed once again, Feuilly leaned back into the chair, pulled his cap down to cover his eyes, and gently nudged Enjolras off the ottoman with his feet so he could claim it as a footrest. Laughing softly, he said, "Well, then go. I've another few hours before I'm expected at work and I intend to take this opportunity to get what rest I can in a place where I don't have to constantly watch my back. If you have need of me, you know where to find me."

Enjolras stood watching him for another minute more, more grateful than he could possibly express that Feuilly was his friend, that Feuilly cared so much about him that he would rather see him happy than keep him. More than anything, he was glad that Feuilly hadn't treated him any differently than he ever had. Quietly, so as not disturb his now-sleeping friend, he said, "You're a good friend, Feuilly… I daresay you may be my best. Someday I may even find a way to thank you for it."

Enjolras then turned and left the sunroom. It was time to find R and get to the bottom of what had gone wrong between them. Enjolras only hoped that now that he'd been given a second chance, he wouldn't manage to screw it up again if, and _when_ , he got his memory back.

* * *

R had spent the morning with Bahorel and Musichetta going over and over and over the events of the day before. It had been slow going without Enjolras and neither security officer would consent to bringing Prouvaire in to translate in his stead. After the third go round, R had finally called a halt, refusing to write another word or play one more game of charades. Throwing his pencil and notebook on the ground and flipping a gesture at Bahorel that he probably didn't deserve, R had left the office and would have gladly slammed the door in his wake had it not been of the swinging variety.

…and then R was at loose ends. No one but Prouvaire and Enjolras could partner with him and Prouvaire hardly ever left the house. He was as dead in the water as his partner. Building a veritable dictionary of curse words in his head as he trudged down the halls, R eventually made his way back to his room. There was nowhere else useful for him to be. At least here he would be out of the way… and he could drink in peace.

Two glasses into a very expensive bottle of Burgundy, the world finally started losing its jagged edges and R started to breathe a little easier. Lifting the bottle to stare through its deep red contents, R let a regret grow and make itself known. He regretted so much, so very much, these days, but nothing more than the simple fact that he'd let Enjolras drive him away. That loss was still a raw ache in his chest; the fact of his cold, empty bed was still a shock after all this time. The temptation to take advantage of Enjolras' memory loss and start anew from before it all went wrong was strong, but it was a temptation he was almost desperate to avoid. Because when Enjolras regained his memory, he wouldn't thank R for taking advantage. Of that, R was sure.

So, R would remain virtuously alone, and he would drink. Without Enjolras, that was all he was good for anyway.

By five glasses into a very expensive bottle of Burgundy, R was also beginning to regret having turned Prouvaire down the other night. Thoughts of Enjolras and his virtuously empty bed weren't helping, either. He'd just about made up his mind to damn the consequences and go looking for Prouvaire when someone knocked on the door. Knocking back the last of the wine in his glass, R rose to answer it -- it wouldn't be the first time that his thoughts had pulled Prouvaire towards him just when R wanted him and he certainly wouldn't be one to turn him down if he were kind enough to offer himself a second time. When he pulled open the door, however, Prouvaire was not the person on the other side. 

Enjolras, lips drawn down into a frown and brows knitted closely together, was his visitor. And he simply said, "R… we need to talk."

* * *

When R opened the door to his room -- and Enjolras had been mortified to realize that he had to ask Bossuet for its location -- his eyes were wide, a little unfocused… and he reeked of alcohol. The moment he smelled that, Enjolras almost decided to come back at a later time. R's drinking… R was never at his most receptive when he'd been drinking. He'd be argumentative, stubborn, even more down on himself than usual.

Or he'd be horny.

Neither situation was going to get them through what Enjolras needed to say-- what he needed to _ask_. Taking a deep breath, he followed up on his first statement as quickly as he could, hardly daring to take a breath, lest R find an excuse to interrupt and derail him into an argument. "It has come to my attention that sometime in the last two years, I managed to make a complete ass of myself and drive you away. On behalf of that me, I'd like to apologize. And on behalf of this me -- the me that hasn't screwed up so badly yet -- I'd like to ask if you could ever consider giving me another chance."

That rush of words over, Enjolras finally lifted his eyes from where they'd fallen to focus on the scarf wound around R's neck. He hadn't realized where he'd been looking until that moment, felt his cheeks heat when he lifted his head, again. No doubt, R would be sensitive about that. No doubt, R wouldn't want to be reminded. No doubt, whether angry, depressed, stubborn or horny, R was going to give him the boot any second now.

When Enjolras finally dared lift his gaze the rest of the way to meet R's… he saw no intention of that kind whatsoever. R's eyes were slowly blinking, giving him a distracted, genteel look that was out of place in the situation, to say the least. And his lips were stretched into such a small, soft, smile, that Enjolras wasn't even sure he'd heard what Enjolras had said. That was, until R swayed just a little closer, leaned in… and pressed his lips to Enjolras' own.

Though he had every intention of pushing R away, of forcing him to answer that question first, to clear up any misunderstanding between them before they did anything more than exchange one chaste kiss, R was insistent… and Enjolras had never been good at denying him anything that he wanted. Though his mind stumbled over the fact that this was only the second kiss they'd shared in two years, and was the first one that had been real, Enjolras' lips remembered the way of it all too easily and parted for R's tongue when it slid across his lower lip. He lost time then -- minutes, perhaps hours, even days, he didn't care -- as their tongues touched, explored long forgotten depths. R tasted of wine and Enjolras would have gladly gotten drunk off of him in that moment if he could-- except for the noise of a throat being cleared behind him.

Enjolras pulled back from R's lips reluctantly, trapped one in his teeth for a moment as he drew back, ready to scare off whoever had dared interrupt them. With R panting for breath behind him, Enjolras turned to face whoever was who'd interrupted them… and stopped, his harsh words unspoken.

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow and coughed delicately. "I can come back at another time if it's more convenient…?"

Unsure where they stood after that debacle of a meeting, Enjolras was about to tell him that he could do exactly that, but R reached a hand past him to grip Courfeyrac's shoulder, and Enjolras just caught the shake of his head from the corner of his eye. He stepped out of the way as R motioned Courfeyrac inside and ushered him into the room's only armchair, then drew his desk chair over to sit nearby and motioned Enjolras to take a seat on the bed.

As he sat, a feeling like a hand trailing down his spine made Enjolras shiver. When that touch came a second time, Enjolras jumped, turned to glare at R just to find himself already being glared at. That shivery feeling came again. "Is that you, R? What the hell?"

R rolled his eyes, but this time the shivery feeling came with the impression of words.

"I was trying to get your attention. You shut me out. Please don't do it again. I've had enough communicating through charades for one day."

Enjolras crossed his arms over his chest. "How did I even do that?"

Before R could fire back the angry retort that was clear was coming from his knitted brows and deep frown, Courfeyrac reached out to grab R's hand and Enjolras' knee and said, "Stop. Just… stop."

When Enjolras turned and took a better look at Courfeyrac… any remaining bitterness at the interruption faded away. There were dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was dull, unkempt. The hand on Enjolras' knee was shaking. A wave of remorse swept through him as he cataloged all those signs of something wrong and he immediately backed down. "I'm sorry. I… somehow I shut R out of my mind and I'm not sure how and I don't know what I'm doing and no one will _explain_ anything. The last thing I remember I didn't even have this ability and I sure as hell don't know how to use it!"

At Enjolras' agitation, R's face softened. "I keep forgetting--"

Enjolras snorted. "I thought that was my problem."

R's face softened further, into a true smile, and he touched his fingers to his head in a brief salute. Enjolras might have rolled his eyes at the antics, but he appreciated the sentiment behind them, the reassurance that even though things might not be right between them, R still had his back. He didn't need words to tell him that.

As R turned to offer Courfeyrac some wine from a bottle that Enjolras recognized as one his parents had saved from their wedding, R's voice returned to whisper into his mind, "Don't let on that I'm talking to you, OK?" Enjolras took the opportunity of declining a glass of his own to meet R's eyes and slip him their sign for "OK."

"Good. I'm going to tell you upfront that I've had just enough to drink that I can't manage you both as carefully as I should right now. There's a lot you don't know, Enjolras; a lot we didn't tell you last night. I still don't think you're ready to hear it, but I get the feeling that may be why he's here. So just… keep your mouth shut and let him talk if that's what he wants to do."

R's mental voice stopped then, as he watched Courfeyrac take down most of the wine in his glass in one long, continuous swallow and then hold out the glass for more. R's eyes widened and he pulled the bottle back, lips turning down into a frown. Courfeyrac snarled at that. "I can not begin to tell you how absolutely done I am with people making decisions for me 'for my own good'. If you know what's good for _you_ , you'll pour me the rest of what's in that bottle and open another and keep it coming."

R winced and did exactly that, reaching down to pull out a Cabernet when the Burgundy was gone. By the time Courfeyrac was into his third glass, R looked significantly more sober, but the second Enjolras opened his mouth, R shook his head. No. Still not time. Though he bristled about it, Enjolras did keep his peace. He owed R that much.

By the time he reached his fourth glass, Courfeyrac finally slowed down, started drinking like he actually wanted to taste it, again. When he turned his eyes on Enjolras, they were bloodshot, puffy. He said, simply, "You have questions. Ask."

Enjolras didn't need R's widened eyes and wildly shaking head to know to tread carefully. Courfeyrac's mood from the very beginning of this conversation had already clued him in to that. So he started carefully, as neutrally as he knew how. "Have we accomplished anything towards our goals in the last two years?"

Courfeyrac let out a bitter laugh at that. Taking another swig of his wine, he leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, turning them to tap at Enjolras' feet. "Nice try. That's not what you want to know. Ask again."

"Enjolras, don't you fucking dare--"

Enjolras turned quickly towards R, attempting to glare him into silence. R was having none of it.

"I'm serious, Enjolras. He's pent up and spoiling for a fight and if you're not careful you're going to end up giving him one. I don't want to have to be the one to clean up that fall-out."

Before Enjolras could respond, Courfeyrac reached out and tapped his second and third fingers against the middle of R's forehead. Once he had R's attention he said, "Stop. That. I don't need you to protect me and I don't need it from him, either. No one else is going to tell him anything and he needs to know. He _should_ know." He turned his next words down into his wineglass, but Enjolras heard them loud and clear just the same.

"It's his fucking fault, anyway."

R glanced between them for a moment, then slumped in his chair and threw a hand in the air to indicate that he was washing his hands of the whole mess. Wordlessly, he poured himself another glass a wine and held it aloft until Courfeyrac clinked his against it.

Once they'd both taken generous drinks, Enjolras took a deep breath and said, "You want to tell me about Philadelphia."

Courfeyrac's lips pulled back into a brief laugh that turned quickly into a snarl. He shook his head, placed his wineglass carefully down on the table and pushed himself out of his chair to drop down beside Enjolras on the bed. Before either Enjolras or R could even begin to figure out what he was about, he said, "No… I want to _show_ you." 

With no further warning than that, Enjolras felt another shiver run down his spine, harder this time, more insistent -- someone trying to kick down a door rather than politely knock -- and what remained of his shields came crashing down. Then between that second and the next, he was lost in the maelstrom of pain behind Courfeyrac's eyes.

* * *

=====+++=====+++=====+++=====

* * *

_~Blink.~_

It was dark. It was cold. He was out of breath, had been running for so long that his feet felt heavy, lifeless and dead at the ends of his legs, the breath burning in his chest as he desperately dragged in another gasp. They were gaining on him. He couldn't say how he knew, but he _did_. Runrunrunrunrun!

_~Blink.~_

Darkness again, but heat, this time. Heat so overwhelming that he thought he might faint. And then… a touch. Hands in his hair, trailing down his chest… his stomach… sliding between his thighs…

NO!

Enjolras lurched away from the memory, a memory he knew wasn't his, in spite of how much it felt like it was, but Courfeyrac was merciless in opening his mind to Enjolras' gift and at that proximity and with Enjolras having lost any ability to control his shields, he had no chance to keep him out. He fell back into the memory, drowning in tidal waves of hazel.

_~Blink.~_

More than feelings now. There was context, this time. Small blessings, at least.

He was tied to a bed, a figure crouched over him, laughing at his struggles, his pain. He ground out, "I will fight you." He strained against his bonds, twisting to glare up at the smirking face bare inches from his own. "I will fight you with everything I am. No matter what you do, you won't win. You won't own me. I will fight you!"

Enjolras could feel it -- the desperation bubbling in his chest, the fear that his words were but a boast. No one had ever fought this man for control of their mind and won. No one. And Courfeyrac had already lost every advantage he might have had when he'd been taken.

The man above him -- _Montparnasse,_ Courfeyrac supplied -- nodded, eyes widening in glee as Enjolras' movements threw the lines of his shoulders into sharp relief. In a move at complete odds with the desperate struggles of the one beneath him, Montparnasse reached out a hand and stroked a gentle finger across his brow, tucking a stray lock of hair back behind his ear. When Enjolras tossed his head, jerked as far away from that touch as his bonds would allow, Montparnasse's only response was to make a gentle shushing noise and move to replace that hair again. After several more minutes of struggling, the only effect of which was to force him into taking ever deeper breaths as he fought off his growing panic, Montparnasse smiled. "I have no doubt you would have tried."

_~Blink.~_

He was happy. He was loved. He felt so, so, _so_ very good. He _was_ good. He tried his best to be good. To make Him happy. To make everyone happy. Everyone He brought. Of all of them, he was the Best. That was what He said. The Best. Everyone asked for him. Everyone wanted him. Everyone. Because he was so very… very… very… good…

Enjolras tried to pull away, again, as desperate to break out of this smothering blanket of pleasure and blank obedience as he had been to break his physical bindings a moment before. He railed and screamed and begged to be released… not realizing until he was about to be pulled under again that that desperate wailing and beating at the cage of his own mind… that had been part of the memory, too.

_~Blink.~_

He was scared again… so scared. There were strange cloths draped over his body, enveloping his every limb, constricting his movements, making him feel hot and trapped. Where was He? Hadn't he been good? Hadn't he been so good? He fought against the hand pulling him along, the hand that had swaddled his body in these cloths then taken him from where he felt safe. Whoever this man was, he didn't want to go with him, to go where he was leading. He begged, screamed, for help, but the man grabbed him, clamped a hand over his mouth so tight, so, so tight and he couldn't breathe!

The man turned in the darkness of the alleyway and said, "Damn it, are you trying to get us caught? Shut up!"

At the condemnation in that tone, he fell silent, cowed as he always was by harsh words. As guilt began to churn in his belly and tears began to fall from his eyes, Enjolras, for once, didn't fight that memory. He would stay there as long as he could, would listen to that voice no matter what cruelties it spoke, because he knew that voice… It was Grantaire's.

_~Blink.~_

He was safe. He knew he was safe. There had been running and screaming and terror, but now he was back where he belonged… only He had been angry. So, so angry. He'd hurt him. He'd let other's hurt him. So many others. And then He'd brought in the other man. The one who'd stolen him away. And He'd said that he would be forgiven… if he proved he could be a good boy by killing this man. He'd taken the knife without any hesitation and crawled over, unable to stand after all the abuse he'd taken but desperate to do whatever it took to win back His good favor.

He'd stared down at the man -- as bruised and broken as he was -- and raised the knife. Only… there was a sadness in that man. A sadness that he didn't understand, that he knew instinctively wasn't for the man himself… it was for _him_. This man… was sad for him. This man had come here for _him_ , to… help… him…?

Even now the man was crying, shaking his head and apologizing. "I'm sorry, Courfeyrac… I'm so, so sorry… I'm sorry I couldn't save you. I tried. I'm sorry that I landed you in this position, that I made things worse. I told Enjolras… Fuck, why am I such a screw up? But you… None of this is your fault. Even if you kill me… _none of it_ , OK? That may not mean much to you now, but someday… G-d, I hope someday it will."

This man was his friend.

"…'aire?"

The man below him froze, lips stretching into a smile even as his eyes widened. He nodded and that sunny smile spread wider even as more tears fell from his eyes. "That's right! R! Grantaire! That's me. I'm your friend. Please… Courfeyrac, you have to remember! You have to fight this. It's just conditioning; I know you can do this!"

And he -- Courfeyrac? -- he did his best. He tried so hard to fight, to do what the man -- Aire? -- had told him to do, but… He intervened. Snarling, He came up behind Courfeyrac and grabbed his hands, holding them tight to the knife… and brought it down. Courfeyrac struggled as best he could, fought to turn the knife, but in the end…

The memory faded this time, washed out in a bath of red. When Courfeyrac screamed, Enjolras screamed with him.

_~Blink.~_

"Jesus fucking Christ, Courfeyrac, be more careful, would you? I think Bossuet would like to keep all of his toes."

They were home this time, really, truly home. Enjolras knew these halls, knew these walls, the windows and doors, every stain on the carpet. They were home and Courfeyrac was himself again, no longer smothered under Montparnasse's conditioning only… something was still wrong. He could feel it under his skin like a thousand angry bees, and he lashed out with Courfeyrac's voice before he even realized what he was doing. "Well, he shouldn't have been in my way!"

Joly reached out, tried to take the pile of plates -- and sharp pointy silverware -- away from him before he could truly hurt anyone, but he wasn't having it, pulled the plates away… and dropped half of them on the floor in the process. And the noises they made when they hit the floor… Slowly, Courfeyrac knelt and put the rest of the stack on the floor, ignored it as Joly started insistently demanding that he get back up before he get shards of ceramic embedded in his knees. He only had eyes for those broken plates. He picked up one of the larger pieces, pulled his arm back and threw it as hard as he could, shivered in reaction when it broke against the wall. He ignored it as he sliced open his palm on another jagged piece, ignored the pain in his knees, too-- no.

No, it was more than that. He didn't want to ignore it. The pain was even better than the breaking noises. When he picked up the next broken plate, he forewent throwing it and jabbed the point through the cloth of his trousers, instead. As the point drove into his thigh, he let out a low moan, bent over the wound, shivering in near ecstasy as he drove the point deeper.

By then there were more people in the hallway. Someone grabbed him from behind, trapping his arms against his chest and he screamed, kicked, raged like a wild thing as he fought to get free. He threw his head back, cracked the back of his head on the person's teeth as he struggled… and that was that. Dazed and exhausted, that gave Prouvaire an opening to reach in and touch his forehead and--

_~Blink~._

"…could the conditioning still be there? Still be acting on him from underneath the block-- What? Oh!"

Enjolras winced, put a hand to his head as he pushed himself into a sitting position. He turned to face the one who had spoken -- and came face to face with himself. It wasn't like looking in a mirror; it was far more disturbing than that. Before he could truly process it, though, his mouth was moving, words emerging, and that helped him remember that these weren't his memories. "What conditioning? What are you talking about?"

Combeferre pushed past the other Enjolras to sit beside him on the bed, one hand carding gently through his hair as he spoke. "How much do you remember, Courfeyrac?"

Not much. Enjolras could see that, could clearly see the holes in this memory within a memory, could all too clearly see the similarity to what had been done to his own mind… and shuddered. He knew what the gaping holes in Courfeyrac's memories contained, what sinister secrets they hid… no wonder Courfeyrac didn't trust him to run loose. Courfeyrac had been held captive for months… but it had taken them barely an hour to set the reconditioning to begin with. Who knew what might have been done to Enjolras in the hours he'd been gone?

Rather than answering the question, Enjolras asked one of his own. "What have you done to me? I… I feel like I'm coming apart at the seams, like if I don't tear myself open I'll burst. _What have you done to me?_ "

Enjolras-in-the-memory knelt down in front of him and took his hands in his. "We needed you. We didn't… Courfeyrac, I'm sorry, but we couldn't risk taking the time it would take to let you recover from this on your own. There wasn't _time_."

Enjolras yanked his hands away from the other Enjolras and jerked his head out from under Combeferre's hands and ground out, "What. Did. You. Do?"

This time it was Prouvaire who stepped forwards. He snapped his fingers in front of Enjolras' face to get his attention, then said, "We cheated the system. Rather than fixing the damage the conditioning did to you, we simply made you forget it had been done and hoped that would prevent any fallout." Giving him a thorough once over that ended in a leering grin, Prouvaire shrugged, "Looks like it didn't work."

Too restless to sit still under the weight of this new knowledge, Enjolras jumped to his feet, pushed away from those crowded around the bed and began to pace. Within two passes, he had his hands buried in his hair, yanking harshly at the curled strands. Within five, he was digging his fingernails into his scalp, not stopping until he drew blood. When Joly reached out to try to grab his hands, he danced out of reach and lowered them on his own. Finally he said, "I don’t know what to think of this. I really don't. You… to hell with what _you_ wanted -- you owed it to me to ask what _I_ wanted." Turning towards Prouvaire, he continued, "And what you're telling me now is that this reconditioning I was under is still in my head and still acting on me. So what happens if I don't give in to it? If we do nothing?"

Prouvaire shrugged. "More of what's happening right now, I suppose."

"What? This jumpiness? This feeling like if I don't rip myself apart it'll kill me? Feeling like--"

"Like what you really need is someone to fuck you raw and bloody and choke you down and degrade you while they do it."

The shiver started at the base of Enjolras' spine and works its way up until his entire body was shaking with pure need at those words. He let out a low whine, choked it off the second he heard it emerge from his mouth, felt the blood rush into his face at the predatory look in Prouvaire's eyes as he pronounced those words… and then leave it just as quickly as those words and that look turned a shiver of arousal into a raging erection two seconds later. He let out another choked whimper, slid down the wall until he was crouched in the corner and wailed, "What do I do? I can't live like this!"

Prouvaire crouched down, slid a hand gently into his hair… a hand that turned not so gentle a moment later as it grabbed a fistful of strands and yanked. Enjolras' vision swam at that and he started praying that this memory would blink out soon and spare him the humiliation of what he suddenly knew must be coming next.

No such salvation was forthcoming, and the moment that thought passed, he was ashamed for having had it. What salvation had Courfeyrac had in any of this? What had he been spared? Nothing.

As Prouvaire jerked his head back and bit harshly into his neck, his breathing sped up into ragged pants. He was so overwhelmed with sensation, with desperate need, that he couldn't even think, much less form words. Vaguely, he could hear Prouvaire above him, saying something about pressure release valves and something more about what would happen if the pressure wasn't periodically released and something about adding another piece of conditioning to what was already there, something that would rip away the mental blocks Prouvaire had put there and leave him vulnerable and as wanton and obedient as he'd been when they first got him back -- enough that someone could use his body in the way that conditioning was forcing him to crave, enough that they could indulge it safely, without doing permanent damage to his mind.

Somewhere, buried deep, Enjolras was screaming that they owed it to Courfeyrac to let _him_ make this choice, that they couldn't take it away from him again, that it wasn't fair, but his body was too busy screaming out its need and Enjolras couldn't make himself heard past it. He was too busy trying to push against Prouvaire, rutting against him while desperate moans tumbled from his lips.

Prouvaire yanked his head back again, bit more bruises into the curve of his neck and into his shoulders as he bared them. With strength Enjolras would never have guessed that slim build hid, he manhandled them back to the bed in a room now thankfully empty of other visitors, pushed him down onto it and crawled between his legs. Enjolras whimpered, strained up against him, desperate for more.

Prouvaire leaned close, toying with him the way he almost remembered someone else -- _Montparnasse!!_ another voice cried, but Enjolras was too far gone to listen -- doing before. He pressed down against him, laughing softly when Enjolras arched up to meet him. Finally he leaned closer still and Enjolras felt that same shiver start at the base of his spine -- now not even a kick but a battering ram -- and suddenly Prouvaire was _everywhere_. Over him, under him, around him, _inside_ him and nothing Enjolras did could dislodge him. He played Enjolras' body and mind like a harp, plucking whatever strings suited his fancy, and Enjolras could _feel_ it, that sharpened desire, as though what Prouvaire really wanted was to finish what Montparnasse had started and take him apart for good.

When he was finished and Enjolras finally felt control of his own limbs returning, Prouvaire whispered into his mind, _~You can hate me all you need to for this. I won't mind. In fact, I encourage it -- you should. I won't sugar coat it… I raped you. You shouldn't trust me, Courfeyrac… not ever. Now that I've had a taste of you… If I do this too many times, I'll end up pushing your limits until I break you completely, just to see if I can. That's **my** conditioning talking. So, we need to find someone else who can do this for you. Someone who will care enough about you to let you hate him just to help you survive. But that's a problem for another day. For now… sleep. Recover. You need it.~_

And with those words, a hand closed around the side of his neck and--

_~Blink.~_

* * *

=====+++=====+++=====+++=====

* * *

Enjolras came back to himself to hear R's terrified voice in his mind screaming at him to wake up, to open his eyes, to fucking _talk to him_ and-- Enjolras held up a hand and croaked out, "I'm OK. Grantaire, I'm OK."

It wasn't until Courfeyrac let out a small gasp beside him that he realized what he'd said. He turned to apologize, but before he could, R's voice was back, insistent, "You can call me whatever the fuck you want to call me, just don't scare me like that again, OK???"

Enjolras reached out and grabbed R's hand to give it a reassuring squeeze. "What even… What happened?"

"Courfeyrac grabbed you and then you fucking _seizured_. Full on, Grand Mal seizure and it didn't fucking _stop_." R turned then, glared at Courfeyrac. And Enjolras didn't need words to translate that glare… but after what he'd just seen and experienced, he was loathe to even frown at Courfeyrac.

Courfeyrac rose from the bed and went to refill his glass. He didn't speak again until he'd downed the whole thing. "I'm sorry." When Enjolras moved to interrupt, he shook his head. "No. I definitely owe you that apology, Enjolras. But I… after this morning, I…" He stopped speaking then, his hand clenched into a fist, his eyes squeezed tightly shut.

When he finally regained control of himself, Courfeyrac ground out, "You needed to know. And no one was going to tell you. And I… I _couldn't_ tell you. I can't talk about it, I can't--" He stopped again, fought with his breathing and the lump of tears that Enjolras could hear all too clearly under his voice. "You needed to know why we can't trust Prouvaire. You needed to know why we can't trust you. You needed… you needed to know." He turned, met Enjolras' gaze. "You needed to know because I know you. You'd have pushed. You'd have tried to find a way around the restrictions we've placed on you. And what if you're as badly off as I am -- or worse -- and we don't find out until it's too late? What then? What if I had fallen apart at a rally? On stage? In front of thousands of people? Can you imagine the field day the press and the government would have had? Watching the PR face of Les Amis turn into, into… _fuck_! Into some wanton sex slave right up on a rally stage? Can you imagine how much more disastrous if it were _you_?"

Enjolras could. He could imagine all too well. And the image made him ill.

Courfeyrac slumped, put his glass back down on the table. "That's why you needed to know. And that was the only way I could tell you. I'm… sorry. You have no idea how much."

Only that last… Enjolras got the distinct feeling that it wasn't directed only at him. Moments later, R rose from his own seat and crossed to envelop Courfeyrac in a tight hug. Enjolras felt that tell-tale shiver that accompanied R's attempt to get his attention and instinctively let him in. "Enjolras… translate?" When Enjolras nodded, Grantaire began passing him messages at just the right pace for him to get them out before the next arrived. They really _had_ been doing this for a while.

As R cradled Courfeyrac in his arms, Enjolras relayed his words. "I told you then that it wasn't your fault. I meant it. Even if you'd killed me, it still wouldn't have been your fault. I hope that now is the time that those words will finally mean something for you, but if not… I'll repeat them as often as I have to. Whenever you need me to save you, I will. When you need me to help you breathe, I'll be there. I'll be 'Air' for you for as long as you need me to be. This doesn't change that. This doesn't change that at all." R pulled back, brushed the tears away from Courfeyrac's eyes and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead, "I'm proud of you. I'm proud that you found a way to tell him. Even if this isn't exactly the Enjolras who took away your choices, you still told him. It's good. It's a step forward." He hesitated, his smile fading as Courfeyrac stepped away, pulled out a handkerchief and started wiping at his eyes. "Courfeyrac… I didn't ask before, but… you and Combeferre…?"

Courfeyrac answered, in a harsh, guttural voice -- a voice nearly as gravelly as what remained of R's own voice. "We're fine. We don't have a choice. _I_ don't have a choice. It's him or Prouvaire and--"

"And me."

Courfeyrac jerked, his eyes turning to look at Enjolras before darting back to R. "Which… which one of you…?"

Enjolras and R turned to look at each other and Enjolras, for once, was completely unsure which one of them had originated that thought that he'd just spoken. But as they stared each other down, a certainty began to form and R's small nod and signal of "OK" crystallized it. Enjolras turned back to Courfeyrac. "Both of us. Either of us. If you and Combeferre need to step away from each other, if it's getting to be too hard… it's the least I can do for putting you in that position in the first place. And thanks to what you just shared with me… I think I might understand better what it is that you need."

Courfeyrac spent several minutes turning his gaze on first one, then the other of them. Finally, he said, "I'll take that under consideration. And… thank you."

Enjolras would have pushed the issue -- Courfeyrac was right, that was a tendency he had -- but R caught him before he could. And Enjolras understood. Courfeyrac needed time to process what he'd done, needed time upon time to process the offer they had made. And _they_ needed to think about what it would mean for them if he said yes. When he turned to leave, Enjolras didn't stop him.

Once Courfeyrac had gone, Enjolras cleared his throat and turned back to R, said softly, "I wondered why everyone was addressing you by your nickname and nothing else. I didn't realize…"

R shrugged. "He needed support and since I was the one to get him out of there, he trusted me in ways he didn't trust any of you. And I take if you saw… even reconditioned, beaten and gang-raped near out of his mind, that was the part of my name he remembered. When he couldn't breathe… I was his air. It was a necessity, then it became a joke… and then it became me. I'd been silenced. I wasn't who I'd been. I needed a name that reflected all of that. So… 'R'."

Enjolras reached out, took R's hand into his own. "If you'd prefer I…"

R's answer was quick, a smile playing about his lips when he gave it. "No. I don't. I… I hadn't realized I'd missed hearing you say my name until now." He looked up, and that smile reached into his eyes. "Second chances, right? Maybe I could use one, too."

Enjolras lifted his free hand and gently cupped R's cheek, guided his lips down to meet Enjolras' own. This kiss was soft, gentle -- everything the other one hadn't been. When they pulled back this time, Enjolras smiled softly and said, "Grantaire… here's to second chances."

When R pulled him back into another kiss, Enjolras felt that shiver up his spine again, only this time it had nothing to do with his shields and everything to do with Grantaire… and this second chance. This time, he wouldn't screw it up.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courfeyrac let out a soft sigh and murmured, "Thank you, Combeferre… for everything."
> 
> …and Combeferre all but choked on his response of "You're welcome," when he realized that with that thank you… what Courfeyrac was really saying was… "Goodbye."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _November 29, 2014:_** Right... so... clearly this is not FYFM Chapter 17. -.-;;; It seems to me that whenever FYFM is fighting me the hardest, that's almost a surefire sign that I should be working on Muet. *snerts* Glad to see that holds true. ^_~ Besides, [kingess](http://kingesstropolis.tumblr.com) and [takethewatch](http://takethewatch.tumblr.com) were saying SUCH LOVELY THINGS ABOUT THIS FIC TONIGHT that it just poured inspiration straight into my head. ^_^ This is the EASIEST I've found writing in MONTHS. So, thank you so much you two! I really, really appreciate it! ^_________^
> 
> Anyway, specific warnings: this is another chapter that earns its rating. Only for a change, the sex is consensual. ...mostly. ...as close as Muet is going to _get_ to consensual for a while, anyway. -.-;;; So, yeah. Just be aware.
> 
> Otherwise... enjoy? ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/103866520367/muet-chapter-5-courfeyrac-let-out-a-soft-sigh).
> 
> * * *

"I wish you'd at least take a dampener with you."

Feuilly didn't even look up from his packing to answer that question. "Bahorel, you know I can't. If I get caught with that kind of tech in my possession, it's instant reconditioning -- do not pass Go, do not collect $200. I can't take that chance."

"A comm, then. Or an alert button. Just something to let us know if you need extraction."

Feuilly sighed, put down the packet of protein bars he'd been about to tuck in among his clothes and turned to face Bahorel. "If I get myself into a situation where I need that kind of extraction, there's no way you'd get to me in time. And then I'd have exposed you in addition to myself." Bahorel opened his mouth but before he could speak, Feuilly held up a hand. "I appreciate this concern. I really do. But I can take care of myself. I always have done and always will do."

"A partner. Someone to watch your back."

"I have Gavroche."

"Gavroche." Bahorel snorted, barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. "Whose side is that kid even on?"

Feuilly's lips lifted up into an hesitant twitch of a smile. "His own, Bahorel. That's why I trust him."

Bahorel shook his head. He reached out with both hands, gripped Feuilly's shoulders tightly and gave him a firm shake. "You be careful out there, OK? We can't lose you."

Feuilly nodded as he attempted to back out of Bahorel's hold. "I know, I know. With Grantaire even more grounded than before, I'm all we have out there, now. I get it."

"No." Bahorel pulled Feuilly back in, this time tight to his chest in a bear of a hug. "Because you're my friend. Because I've lost too much already, and I don't want to lose you, too. OK?" He stepped back, met Feuilly's gaze so squarely that Feuilly could practically feel the impact. "You be careful. No unnecessary risks, no matter what you think we may gain from it. Watch your own skin and bring it back intact. Got it?"

Feuilly's smile was real, this time, not a hint of irritation in it as he answered softly, "Got it."

Bahorel smiled in response, pulled Feuilly into one last hug before letting him go entirely. "Good." They stood there for another moment then, awkwardly staring at the half-packed duffel bag on the table between them, until Bahorel broke the silence one last time. "I guess I'll leave you to it, then." He then turned on his heel and moved to leave.

Bahorel had nearly made it all the way to the door by the time Feuilly spoke again -- soft, hesitant as though testing out words with which he was unfamiliar. "Thank you."

Bahorel didn't even turn back, simply nodded once and left. Feuilly could take care of himself and, right at that moment, Bahorel couldn't have been more grateful. He had enough people to take care of, already.

* * *

Feuilly finally finished his packing, tucking extra supplies into every spare nook and cranny of space. There were people in the city who needed the help that even one extra protein bar would provide; there were people in the city who would barter information, safe passage and reliable message relays for some of the vitamin supplements and antibiotics he'd tucked in there, as well. It wasn't fair to say that the cities were chaos these days -- they weren't. They couldn't be, not when the government had iron-clad control. But there would always be haves and have-nots, not matter how totalitarian a government held sway. It helped keep order, when the haves would sacrifice whatever freedoms they had to in order to avoid becoming have-nots. It made Feuilly sick. That greed, that sense of privileged excess… people were starving right outside the windows of the elite, dying of diseases which could be cured with a single pill, and those in power didn't care. And the people at the top of the food chain weren't the only ones willing to give up freedom for security. The ones at the bottom threw it away far too easily, as well, giving up their brothers, their sisters, their children, their very _selves_ to be government cannon fodder if it meant three squares a day and a roof over their heads. It was slavery at its worst -- "volunteer" slavery. It had to change.

But that was what Les Amis were all about, Feuilly reminded himself. They wanted to change all of that, to give people back their freedom, to give them back dignity and basic human rights. That was why it was so important that they had people on the ground, people keeping an eye on what was going on in the city's underbelly. That was why, partner or no, Feuilly had to go. He might not be able to do much, but he could do something. And that was far better than being cooped up and helpless, any day.

Feuilly zipped up his duffel bag, stuffed another few medicine vials in his jacket pockets and started making his way out of the mansion. He made it all the way to the garage before he was waylaid again.

R was leaning up against Feuilly's beat-up old Mustang, one leg bent, with his foot resting on the tire, his arms crossed over his chest and his posture hunched. _Oh no. No… not this._ Feuilly kept his groan purely internal as he approached, then leaned over R to toss his duffel bag in the open front passenger-side window. He nodded briefly. "R."

R nodded in return, a contemplative frown on his face as he watched Feuilly go through the motions of prepping his car to leave. Taking full advantage of the fact that Enjolras practically had a full auto shop in his garage, Feuilly usually took the opportunity to perform routine maintenance on his car when he was in. On the outside, she might look like she was on her last legs, but under the hood? Feuilly would put her up against any brand new thing just off the line any day of the week. He'd done most of the major maintenance work when he'd been in last week. Today he just needed to top off the gas tank and he could be gone. But seeing R struggle to find a way to ask what he so clearly needed to ask, Feuilly almost wished that weren't so, that he had an excuse to give his friend the time he needed to work it out.

Once he'd filled the gas tank, once he couldn't put off his leave-taking any longer, Feuilly leaned against the hood of the car next to R and cut him some slack. "This is about Enjolras."

R nodded. 

Of course, this was about Enjolras. Feuilly sighed, lifted a hand to rub against his temple. He should have known that he wouldn't be able to throw R off as easily as he had Enjolras. Enjolras didn't remember. R did. And R was a friend. He wouldn't be satisfied with Feuilly telling him that it was OK, that it didn't matter. Feuilly and Enjolras had been happy together, after a fashion, and the last thing that R would want would be to take that away from either of them -- especially when Enjolras wasn't even fully aware of what he was giving up.

Feuilly didn't bother pasting a smile on his face. R would see right through it. Instead he shrugged, drummed his fingers against the metal of the hood a few times. "I told you when he and I first took up with each other that should either of you ever change your mind, I wouldn't stand in the way. I meant that, R. If you two can work things out between you, nothing would make me happier. So, just… don't worry. We're good. Yeah?"

R reached out a hand to wrap around the back of Feuilly's neck, guided his head down until their foreheads touched. Seeing the hot frustration in R's eyes from that proximity nearly undid him completely. This wasn't fair. They stayed locked in that position for almost two minutes, staring each other down from inches away. Just when Feuilly was ready to try laughing it off and pulling away, R did something completely unexpected.

…he spoke.

R's voice was harsh, ugly, faded in and out, booming and pitching like a guitar being dragged over gravel. It broke Feuilly's heart. R had been a jazz musician once, and a promising one at that. Enjolras had taken the stage after his set one night and R had been transfixed -- more by Enjolras than his words, but in the end, that didn't matter much, did it? -- and had eagerly followed him on his wild quest for justice and equality. R's voice had been their ticket into many places Les Amis had never been able to go before, and he'd taken such joy in his music that it lifted even the darkest hearts among them. So, to hear what Montparnasse's knife had made of that golden voice, to hear the ravaged, ruined tones of what was left behind… it was devastating. He knew exactly what it cost R in pain to use what was left of that voice and on the rare occasion that he chose to do so, Feuilly paid attention.

R stared straight into Feuilly's eyes and said, "You deserve to be happy."

Feuilly reached up, placed a hand on the back of R's neck in a mirror of R's own tight grip and said, simply, "So do you."

R snorted, rolled his eyes and opened his mouth to speak again. Feuilly tightened his hold and gave him a soft shake, a habit he'd picked up from Bahorel. "This isn't a game of Finder's Keepers, R. Nor is Enjolras a lucky piece to be traded around." R snorted again. "He chose you. He wants you. You want him." Feuilly gave R another small shake, smiled when R released him and took a step back, a gentle smile finally gracing his own lips. Feuilly said, "It's a good thing. It's what I've wanted ever since you two parted ways -- to see you both happy again. If you throw it away on my account, I'll have to be very cross with you."

R's mouth opened and he double over for a minute in silent laughter. A moment later, he'd pulled out his small notebook and written down, ::You'll be _cross_ with me?:: The word "cross" was underlined three times. 

Feuilly shoved playfully at R's shoulder, the laugh that R refused to voice clear to hear in Feuilly's response. "Yes. I'll be cross with you. I may even be vexed." R reached out and ruffled his hair, snickering as Feuilly danced back out of the way to reorder the wavy strands. "Well, that's done it. I'm vexed for sure, now! You keep that up and I may even end up incensed before this conversation is through!"

When Feuilly looked back up, R was smiling, a lightness in his eyes that had been far too long absent -- a lightness that only Enjolras had ever seemed to put there. R ducked his gaze back down to his notebook and wrote, ::You win. I'll stop. But Feuilly:: He stopped writing, then scratched out the last two words and shook his head. When he looked back up from his notebook, R gripped Feuilly's shoulder once again and said, "Take care of yourself. OK?"

Feuilly pulled R into a tight hug, nodding vigorously against his shoulder. R was a true friend. They all were. There were days that Feuilly cursed the fact that he ever had to leave this safe haven. There were days he wished nothing more than to stay here with his friends, his loved ones… his family. But he was far too aware of how he was needed in the world and that was unlikely to change. Tightening his arms around R once more before letting go and stepping back, Feuilly said, "Are you kidding? Taking care of myself is what I do best. Always has been. I leave the heroics to our charming leader. Speaking of… try to keep him out of trouble. I didn't like the look in his eye at breakfast this morning."

R sighed, scribbled furiously at his notebook for a moment before holding it up. ::You saw that, too? Damn. After last night-- I'll keep an eye on him. I'll fucking sit on him until you come back, if I have to.:: The "after last night" was scratched out, and Feuilly decided not to ask. With a small pang, Feuilly realized that if Enjolras and R had resumed relations so quickly, he really didn't want to know. He was happy for them. He was. But that didn't mean that, on some deep down, vaguely selfish level, he hadn't hoped this might all turn out a little differently. 

R placed two fingers gently under Feuilly's chin and tilted his face upwards. His smile was small and full of sadness. He leaned in to press soft kisses to Feuilly's cheeks: left, right, left, then right, again; a lingering habit from his childhood… from another life. Before placing that last kiss, however, he paused, his cheek pressed to Feuilly's. Eventually he whispered into Feuilly's ear, "I don't care what he said or what he remembers, now. Lover or friend, It would break his heart to lose you. Don't do anything stupid." That message delivered, he placed one last, firm kiss on Feuilly's right cheek and stepped back out of Feuilly's way so he could get into his car.

Checking the rearview mirror as he drove slowly out of the garage, Feuilly was unsurprised to find R still standing there, smiling a soft smile and waving, for as long as Feuilly could still see him. As he turned the bend and R disappeared from sight, Feuilly quietly cursed himself for being a thousand kinds of a fool.

* * *

Courfeyrac eased the solarium door open, stepped through, then slid it closed behind him as quietly as he could. He needed space, time to think… time to _breathe_. And this was one of the few places that even Combeferre wouldn't think to look for him. He knew Enjolras and Feuilly enjoyed spending time out here, but he didn't. He never had. It was too exposed, too open. There were too many directions an enemy could come from. But there was nowhere else for him to go. His and Combeferre's bedroom, once the master suite of this house, and the only bedroom in the mansion large enough to house all the computers and small enough to keep them cool, doubled as Combeferre's ops room. So, Combeferre would be there. And Combeferre was the last person he wanted to run into right now.

And if he wanted privacy, short of locking himself in the powder room in the front hall, this was the only other choice open to him without an escort. And Courfeyrac had spent enough time shut in that powder room. He was in no hurry to spend any more time there, even if the solarium was the only other choice.

The moment the door was closed, Courfeyrac began to pace. Last night… he still felt ill when he thought about what he'd done. In spite of Enjolras' forgiveness, in spite of R's support and encouragement, as far as he was concerned, what he'd done to Enjolras was no different than what Montparnasse had done to him. Walking into that room with his those memories on constant replay had been bait to a trap which he had known Enjolras would fall for. In fact, he'd _counted_ on it -- that with Enjolras' habit of keeping his mind as open as possible for Grantaire, Enjolras' own gift would ensure that he relived those memories along with him. It was nothing short of mind rape, even if it had been Enjolras' own gift doing the dirty work.

But it had been _necessary_. Enjolras had to know. He had to know the true depth of the horror that might be lurking in his own head right that very moment. And nothing short of the full truth would have convinced him. He had to know. He had to know. He had to know--

With a start, Courfeyrac jerked his mind out of that track, halting that circular thinking before it could pull him down any further. Unbeknownst to everyone but Prouvaire, Courfeyrac had once triggered his own conditioning with repetitive thinking like that. He'd spiraled his way down and trapped himself in that mindless docility, unable to break free as easily as he'd entrapped himself. He'd been stuck like that for the better part of two hours, prey for anyone who could have happened along, before Prouvaire had found him. That had been early on… back in the beginning. And after Prouvaire had found him--

Courfeyrac forced himself to start pacing again, hands finding their way into his hair and started to tug as he forced the memories away. Prouvaire hadn't let him loose for an entire day after that. It was what had convinced him that it was time to break away in whatever way that he could, to find someone else to help him manage his… condition. To his credit, Prouvaire had done his best to reign in his own impulses, as he'd promised… but his best wasn't going to be good enough and, after that day, they'd both known it. Courfeyrac had been careful after that, but now it seemed that he hadn't been careful enough. Could he have found another way to convince Enjolras? Had he even tried? Or had he just reached for the easiest route, knowing that in so doing, he'd also get a little of his own back from Enjolras for forcing him into this situation in the first place?

Courfeyrac didn't know. And because he didn't know, he wasn't willing to take any chances. Something had to change. Whether he was starting to channel some part of Prouvaire or Montparnasse that had been left behind when they'd been in his head, it didn't matter. Courfeyrac knew himself well enough to know that he was becoming a danger to those around him. And that was something he wouldn't tolerate. If Combeferre was no longer able to keep him in check… maybe it _was_ time for him to find someone else who could. Whether that someone else would prove to be Enjolras or Grantaire or not… that still remained to be seen. But either way, he had to speak to Combeferre. The sooner, the better. For all their sakes.

* * *

Combeferre pushed himself back from the row of monitors and leaned back in his chair. Feuilly was on his way back into the city -- no dampener, no comm, and no alert button with him. He'd tried to tell Bahorel that Feuilly would refuse, but Bahorel had been so sure he could convince him. Combeferre had known better. Where Feuilly went, in its way, it was more dangerous than even the most clandestine mission Enjolras and R had ever been on. He worked in one of the city's seven community centers, right under the government's very nose. It was the most dangerous place for a member of the Resistance to be… unfortunately it was also one of the most potentially helpful.

The community centers were where they tested young children for psychic ability. Every child, just before starting school, was brought there to be tested. If they were found to have any psychic ability, they were whisked away from their parents and never seen again… unless Feuilly got to them first. Combeferre didn't know how many children he had saved by altering test results -- he'd started that work long before joining up with the rest of Les Amis -- but if you asked Feuilly, he could tell you not only how many, but the names and descriptions of every single one, as well as whether or not he'd been successful in getting them out of the country. And Combeferre also knew that no matter how many he had saved over the years… he remembered even better the ones he hadn't.

So, Feuilly went on, doing things his own way, taking risks that few of them would have agreed to take, just on the off chance that he could balance the debt of the children he'd lost. Bahorel didn't like it. Enjolras liked it even less. But there was nothing any of them could do. Courfeyrac and R were the only two who'd ever managed to talk any sense of caution into him and now… well. Both were so wrapped up in their own problems that neither was able to see much past the end of their own noses.

Tilting his chair forwards, Combeferre let his head come to rest on the desk. Courfeyrac and R… it all came back to them. Always. Patron Minette had known what they were about when they took them out. They'd crippled the entire Resistance in one shot. Then they'd come back and finished the job by taking out Enjolras. Les Amis were dead in the water in more ways than one. 

Apart from Feuilly's solo activities, Combeferre was manning a completely silent ship. He didn't much like it, but there wasn't anything else they could do right now. Prouvaire couldn't be trusted, no matter what Enjolras and R believed, Bahorel and Musichetta had their hands full managing the damage in house and supply runs between their satellite facilities, Joly and Bossuet mainly ran Red Cross style missions of mercy, and that left Combeferre as the only other active team member. And he nowhere near good enough to run solo like Feuilly. It was maddening.

Combeferre pushed himself back from the desk, again, and reached up to rub his hands over his face. He was exhausted. It had been days since he'd gotten any real rest, and it would likely be days more before he got even close to catching up. He rubbed more vigorously at his face, knuckling against his eyes as if that might work where caffeine had failed. Just as he was about to get up and go give caffeine another try, another pair of hands joined his in stroking his face, then sliding up into his hair to stroke his temples. Breath speeding up, Combeferre jerked away, nearly upsetting the chair and tipping himself onto the floor in the bargain. Courfeyrac stared at him from the other side of the chair, face neutral, eyes blank. _No… not so soon… not again… I can't…_

Reaching out a hand, Combeferre lightly touched Courfeyrac's arm. "…Courfeyrac?"

Courfeyrac sighed, shook his head. "I'm fine. I just… we need to talk."

Combeferre let his hand drop, pulled it back against his chest as though it had been burned. He'd known this was coming. He'd known it ever since he pushed Courfeyrac past that boundary he'd been unwilling to cross. By virtue of this awful arrangement, Combeferre walked a tightrope on the line of consent every time he triggered Courfeyrac's conditioning, but the other night… he'd fallen far onto the other side of the line and he'd known it. Just as he'd known there would be a price to pay for it. He nodded dumbly, giving Courfeyrac the entire floor.

Courfeyrac walked to the other side of the room, to his favored chair by the window. Once upon a time, they used to curl up in that chair, reading books to one another to pass the time on slow nights. Once upon a time, they'd made love in that chair, their only accompaniment the crackle of the fire in the fireplace.

They hadn't made love in years.

Courfeyrac turned, sat down gingerly on the edge of that chair and turned back to face Combeferre. After taking a deep breath, he said, "Two years ago, I asked you for a favor. It was a favor I had no right to ask of you. It was a favor that was completely unfair of me to ask of you. It was a favor that, if I had the power to go back in time, I would do almost anything to take back the asking of." He paused, his head drooping momentarily before raising to pin Combeferre with that flat, emotionless gaze. "But I can't. It's done and I can't take it back. I loved you and you loved me. And now… Combeferre… you dread touching me. You dread even _looking_ at me. And a good part of the time, I feel the same way about you." Then finally there was a show of emotion, a crack in the armor, as one single tear tracked its way down Courfeyrac's right cheek. "Right now, I can't even look at you without feeling dirty. And I could feel it that night… you feel the same way, don't you?" Another tear, twin to the first, tracked down Courfeyrac's other cheek. "I've ruined us, haven't I?"

Combeferre stood, crossed the room to land hard on his knees next to Courfeyrac's chair, holding him with nothing more than his eyes -- he hadn't the right to hold him in any other way. "No. Courfeyrac, no. Don't you dare blame yourself for this. This is not your fault. You didn't ruin us. _I_ didn't ruin us. Prouvaire isn't to blame, either. Montparnasse is the one who did this. If you need to lay blame, lay it on him."

Courfeyrac let out a watery chuckle as he lifted his hand to brush the tears from his eyes, unheeding as new ones took their place. "But it doesn't matter. What we had…" His voice choked off and he swallowed hard before attempting to continue. There were howling sobs chained up in Courfeyrac's voice now -- Combeferre could practically hear them when he finally got the next sentence out. "I was going to ask you to marry me. Did you know that? I had it all planned. I had a ring. Feuilly is an ordained minister and Musichetta knows someone who could have gotten us the paperwork, all signed, sealed and legitimate." He paused again, his voice finally breaking on the last sentence. "R was going to sing… if you said 'Yes.'"

Combeferre reached out a hand, gently brushed more of the tears away before letting his hand fall again. "I… Courfeyrac, I had no idea." He could almost hear the question underlying all of it, knew the answer Courfeyrac wanted him to give as if he'd shouted it in his ear. What he didn't know was if that answer would help anything, or if it would only make it worse. He bowed his head.

Courfeyrac's voice was a harsh rasp worthy of R when he next spoke. "That's what I thought."

"I just don't see how knowing what I would have said helps," Combeferre said, almost pleading. "Would it help you to know that I would have said 'Yes?' Would it help you to know that I used to fantasize about growing old with you? Spending my life with you? Running away to France or Ireland or Argentina or Canada or any number of other places where the government doesn't destroy people but uplifts them, instead? Does it help to think about what might have been?" Combeferre lurched to his feet and turned away, angrily wiping at the tears now coming from his own eyes. "Because it doesn't help me. It only makes things worse."

A gentle hand closed over his shoulder, slowly turned him back around and pulled him close. Combeferre went eagerly, clutching Courfeyrac to him, burying his face in Courfeyrac's shoulder -- careful, so careful not to end up near his neck by accident, but far too aware, as always, of the way Courfeyrac shuddered and tensed to have him so close… even invited. But he trusted Courfeyrac to know what he could handle. He had to trust that. Courfeyrac rocked him, slowly stroked his hands down Combeferre's back as he fought to get himself under control. Eventually, Courfeyrac said the words that Combeferre realized he'd been dreading ever since they'd started this travesty of a relationship two years ago.

"Combeferre… I think you and I need a break. We're too close to each other to be of any use to each other. I… the other night. When you--" He stopped, started again, voice shaky but gaining in determination with each word. "When you forced me. I could feel it… you were trying to make love to me, even then. And that uncertainty, that weakness… Combeferre, couldn't you feel me fighting you? You left me that opening to fight against the conditioning and we can't afford that. As much as I hate it -- and believe me, I do -- that conditioning is there for a reason. You can't… there's no room for gentleness in this. There's no space for lovemaking. There can't be." He swallowed hard, shuddered again in Combeferre's arms. "You've lost your stomach for it. And I don't blame you. In fact, I release you from this promise happily… but it means I need to find someone else to do it… even if that means going back to Prouvaire."

Combeferre jerked back, eyes widening as he took in the dead seriousness in Courfeyrac's face. "No. Courfeyrac, you can't!"

Courfeyrac smiled at him, then, a soft smile that wobbled around the edges. He cupped Combeferre's face in his hands, leaned in to brush a butterfly kiss against his lips. "I'm no more eager for that than you are, Combeferre. Believe me. He's a last resort, only. I've other options, I just… I need to research them first. Think out the consequences. At least the other night bought me enough time for that."

"Don't do this." A harsh whisper, cracked and bleeding.

"We don't have a choice."

Combeferre bowed his head, pressed it into the middle of Courfeyrac's chest, even as he tightened his hands around Courfeyrac's hips. The tears were coming hot and fast now, choking off what remained of his voice.

Courfeyrac leaned down, pressed a kiss to the top of his head as he started stroking his hands through Combeferre's hair. Leaning in further still, he whispered his next words directly into Combeferre's ear. "Make love to me. For real. One last time. Make me remember that there's more to this than pain. Remind me that there's something worth coming back for. Please?"

A soft sob was all Combeferre could get out in response. That Courfeyrac could ask… could still _want_ … It was the least he could do. He lifted his head, let himself drink in those features one last time, leaned forward to place a soft kiss on Courfeyrac's lips. When he pulled back, he asked, "You really want this?"

Courfeyrac nodded. "I really want this. Please, Combeferre."

"Then, so do I."

Combeferre backed up a pace, started slowly unbuttoning his shirt, sliding it from his shoulders to let it drop onto the floor. Courfeyrac mirrored his actions, shivering slightly as he dropped that layer of protection. Combeferre reached out, took Courfeyrac's hand in his and pulled him gently back towards the chair by the window. If he could have lit a fire in the fireplace, he would have, but they hadn't had firewood for such luxuries in months. Instead he sank back into the chair and raised an eyebrow at Courfeyrac. Smiling softly, Courfeyrac slid one leg onto the other side of Combeferre's and slowly lowered himself onto his lap.

Combeferre stayed as passive as he could, letting Courfeyrac make all of the moves once they'd settled. He wouldn’t push, wouldn't do anything which might come across as force. This wasn't, thank _goodness_ , about that. Not this time. This was about Courfeyrac… about what might have been… about what might still be if they were luckier than they deserved.

Courfeyrac shifted closer, braced his hands on Combeferre's shoulders as he leaned in for a kiss. Kissing… fuck, it had been so long since they'd kissed -- really kissed. It had been more than two years. Courfeyrac started with soft, chaste kisses which slowly grew more heated, more open. When Courfeyrac introduced his tongue into the game, Combeferre accepted it readily, eagerly, letting out a soft moan as Courfeyrac leaned closer and they brushed against each other. He was barely half-hard, but the feel of Courfeyrac moving atop him, of their tongues twining together in a slow, lazy dance… it didn't take long before he was fighting not to thrust upwards, to increase that friction.

Breaking away from him with a sultry laugh that Combeferre had desperately missed, Courfeyrac slid from his lap and reached down to undo his own belt… unbutton his pants… slide down the zipper. With a soft moan and another sultry laugh for Combeferre's wide-eyed attention, Courfeyrac kicked off his shoes, then pushed both pants and underwear down off his hips, shimmying slightly to encourage them to fall the rest of the way, then stepping out of them with the grace that only total comfort in one's own nudity could provide.

…and that seemed wrong.

As Courfeyrac stepped closer, started doing for Combeferre what he'd just done for himself -- first kneeling to pull off Combeferre's shoes and socks, then easing upwards to help divest him of his pants and underwear -- Combeferre tried to hold the thought. The way the blocks were supposed to work, Courfeyrac should be several steps removed from the memory of the trauma he'd suffered, but this… this was surely _too_ comfortable… wasn't it?

Just as Combeferre was about to lean in, to ask Courfeyrac to wait, Courfeyrac lunged forwards, a desperate look in his eyes, and swallowed Combeferre down in one smooth motion. Combeferre threw back his head and gasped, utterly derailed from what he'd been thinking just a moment before by the wet heat and suction that now engulfed him. And as Combeferre lost himself in the skilled recesses of Courfeyrac's mouth, that desperation slowly faded from Courfeyrac's eyes. His movements slowed, became more drawn-out, almost teasing. Just as Combeferre's toes started to curl and he began thinking about pushing Courfeyrac off of him before he came, Courfeyrac leaned back and reached out a hand to circle Combeferre's member, tightening his fingers in a ring around the base. Combeferre let out a choked curse, then a somewhat frantic laugh.

Courfeyrac merely grinned and tightened his hold. Combeferre let out another choked curse, this time accompanied by a wince, before he managed to get out, "I'm good, Courfeyrac. I can hold off. You can… you can let go." And for just a moment, as their gazes met, Combeferre saw something deep in Courfeyrac's eyes… something that made him suddenly unsure if Courfeyrac _would_ let go. But whatever had passed behind his eyes, in the next moment, it was gone and so were Courfeyrac's fingers. He gave Combeferre's member one last almost reverent stroke with the palm of his hand before releasing him completely and rising from his crouch and turning towards the end table.

When Courfeyrac turned back, he had a bottle of lube in one hand and a generous amount of it already squirted into the palm of his other hand. Raising an eyebrow at Combeferre, Courfeyrac gestured with his hand. Combeferre took in a deep breath and nodded. He wasn't entirely sure that what they were doing really qualified as "making love" -- it was far rougher than either of them had liked in the past -- but it was worlds away from what they'd been doing for the past few years, and it was what Courfeyrac needed. And whatever he needed tonight, Combeferre would make sure he got… whatever that cost him.

When Courfeyrac took him in hand this time, slowly stroking him back to full hardness, Combeferre let himself fall into the sensation. And the more he relaxed, the more Courfeyrac did, as well, until Courfeyrac was bending over him, again, doing his best to kiss him breathless, as lost in what they were doing as Combeferre was becoming. After one last stroke, Courfeyrac turned his back to Combeferre and slowly eased back down into his lap and onto his cock. Though he felt just a small twinge of unease at Courfeyrac's apparent reluctance to do this face-to-face, the tight heat engulfing him, the way Courfeyrac tentatively squeezed down on him the moment he was settled, soon pushed any qualms from his mind. He bit back a moan.

Moments later, as they both adjusted, Courfeyrac reached back and pulled Combeferre's arms around his waist, answering the half-formed question that Combeferre hadn't managed to ask. From this angle, especially with his arms where they were, it would be nigh impossible for Combeferre to reach Courfeyrac's neck with any part of his anatomy save for his head. To prevent even the chance of that, Combeferre let his head drop backwards to rest on the back of the chair, giving himself up entirely to Courfeyrac's will and momentum.

As that surrender became apparent, Courfeyrac let out a soft gasp and tightened his hands on Combeferre's arms. Planting his feet firmly on either side of Combeferre's legs, he started slowly raising himself up and then lowering himself back down. That slow slide was agony, not quite fast enough or hard enough to give Combeferre any satisfaction… but listening to the little gasps and tumbled moans breaking forth from Courfeyrac's lips with every slow shift was nearly enough to send Combeferre over the edge all on its own. It had been far too long since he'd heard Courfeyrac make any such sounds of pleasure during sex. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it.

Soon enough, Courfeyrac grew impatient, began picking up the pace, raising himself up until Combeferre almost slipped from him just to slam back down again. He pulled Combeferre's arms from around his waist, redirecting him to grab his hips, instead, to give him freer range of movement. Combeferre took advantage, pressed his thumbs into the round flesh of Courfeyrac's ass, changing the angle he was coming down at just enough… Courfeyrac let out a loud cry as his next thrust back was met with Combeferre's first thrust up, directly into his prostate, if Combeferre had judged the angle correctly. From that point on, it was a race, Courfeyrac moving faster and faster atop him and Combeferre doing his best to rise up to meet him until Courfeyrac came down one last time with a triumphant yell-- and squeezed down hard on Combeferre as he came, bringing Combeferre along with him.

Courfeyrac then let himself fall backwards to rest against Combeferre's chest, head tucked beneath his chin. Combeferre slipped from him as he shifted to nudge Combeferre's arms back around his waist. Combeferre was gentle, though, even then, only indulging in a light, easily breakable embrace and a few kisses scattered in Courfeyrac's tumbled curls. Courfeyrac let out a soft sigh and murmured, "Thank you, Combeferre… for everything."

…and Combeferre all but choked on his response of "You're welcome," when he realized that with that thank you… what Courfeyrac was really saying was… "Goodbye."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Presented edited, but unbeta'ed. All mistakes are purely my own.
> 
> And as always, feel free to stop by and say "Hi" on [tumblr](http://eirenical.tumblr.com)! As is evidenced by what happened tonight, I'm clearly easily influenced. ;D


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two hours later, Feuilly was back in his Mustang, heading for Henry Street and an old, abandoned gas station, with no one else knowing where he'd gone except the twelve year old boy who'd sent him there. And all he carried with him was a desperate hope that he wasn't making a tremendous mistake… and the knowledge that no one would be coming to save him if he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _February 25, 2015:_** OK, I realize that this is a very short chapter, and I'm sorry about that. But I thought you'd all prefer to at least get this much rather than have me try to hold out to write another scene and then ending up waiting another four months. -.-;;; Anyway, in this chapter we FINALLY get out of the Amis headquarters!
> 
> ...and meet Gavroche. ;D
> 
> Enjoy? ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/112023491047/muet-chapter-6-29-353-words-two-hours-later).

"Mr. Hojas! You are late. What's your excuse today?"

Feuilly threw his duffel bag into a locker and grabbed his work coat, slipping it on as he ducked past his superior and muttered, "Car trouble, Mr. Blackwell. I'm sorry. Won't happen, again."

Mr. Blackwell tapped his pen against the top of the clipboard he was holding, a deep frown resting on his face. "That's what you said the last time. And the time before that. Consider yourself on notice, Mr. Hojas. One more bout of 'car trouble' and I'll see you out of this job so quickly you'll feel like you've been _hit_ by one!"

Feuilly cursed to himself as he ducked out of the staff room, grabbing his own clipboard on the way. Mr. Blackwell was a new supervisor at the Hempstead Center and he'd taken a dislike to Feuilly -- Sergio Hojas, as those at the center knew him -- from the moment they'd first crossed paths. Lance Blackwell was here to do a job; nothing more. He didn't care about the children they screened. He didn't care about the families they tore apart. He didn't care about anything but the kickbacks he got from the government for every psychic child found in his jurisdiction. This was a step on the ladder upward for him, and he didn't care if he built that ladder out of the bodies and souls of innocent children.

…but he had a point.

Feuilly had been allowing himself to get lazy in his actions lately. He spent too much time in the city, tracking down information, delivering food and antibiotics. He let himself get too wrapped up in the day-to-day lives of his neighbors and their families. He was here to do a job, too. And it wouldn't help any of them if he lost his ability to do it because he couldn't tear himself away from poor Mrs. Cobb who'd begged him to fix her leaky faucet this morning. It wouldn't do to help her, just to let a child slip through his fingers because he wasn't where he was supposed to be to catch them.

As Feuilly settled into his office, he braced his head in his hands and began rubbing futilely at his temples. It shouldn't have been so hard to separate himself from the community and do what he was here to do. It shouldn't have been… but it was fast becoming so. He wasn't fooling himself on that score. And he knew exactly why. He'd been here too long. Once upon a time, he and Courfeyrac had been partners on the outside. They'd worked together, supported each other. They'd work a center for a few months, a year tops, and then move on to the next region. They'd never stayed in one place for this long. But this time… this time it was different. Without Courfeyrac, Feuilly had found that moving on was too difficult. Because somewhere in this warren of corruption was the person who'd made Courfeyrac as an Amis, and in so doing, sold him out to Patron Minette. So, somewhere in this warren was the person responsible for everything that had happened to them since. And Feuilly could _not_ walk away from that. Not when there was still a chance to pay them back in kind. So Feuilly stayed. He grew too attached. And in so doing, he put them all at risk. But until he found the person who'd done this to them… he couldn't possibly have cared less.

There was a short rap on the door, then, which broke Feuilly out of his reverie. Straightening in his chair, he pasted a smile on his face just in time to greet the nervous couple shepherding their five year old child into his office for the testing. Feuilly took a quick glance down at his clipboard, then in the most reassuring voice he could muster, said, "Good morning, Mr. and Mrs. Reyes." Turning to the child he said, "And good morning to you, Alexia. My name is Mr. Hojas. I'm just going to be asking you some questions. Nothing to be afraid of."

Except that even as Feuilly directed the girl to put her hands on the sensors in the chair arms and began asking the preliminary calibration questions, he knew that that was a lie. There was everything in the world to be afraid of. As he had introduced himself, the girl's eyes had narrowed, a frown pulled the corners of her lips downwards and she'd opened her mouth to speak. Feuilly had run right over her, his own mind racing. He knew what that meant. After all these years doing what he did, he knew what that meant. Alexia knew his name was not Sergio Hojas… which meant that Feuilly didn't even have to run the tests to learn what he needed to know.

Alexia was psychic.

Feuilly cursed himself for being ten kinds of a fool. Of all the days, of all the times… why now? Mr. Blackwell would be watching him like a hawk, eager for an excuse to show him up after his third lateness this month. Any dithering, any hesitance, any sign of what might be termed incompetence, and Feuilly would be gone from here before he could do anything to help Alexia Reyes. 

But Feuilly was in no mood to add to his list of "almosts" today. They needed a victory, however small-- _he_ needed a victory.

Feuilly leaned in close to Alexia, in the name of placing a row of sensors on her forehead, and as he did so, he focused a thought on a tight path from his own mind towards hers, just as Prouvaire had taught him to do. If he'd done it correctly, that thought wouldn't be detectable to any other mind but hers, and she would be able to use it to pick up any other focused thoughts he sent her way.

_~If you can hear me, kick my knee. Softly. Say nothing.~_

A moment later, heart sinking, Feuilly felt the soft hesitant tap of a sneakered foot against his knee. Even as he started to verbally explain the testing process to Alexia's parents, Feuilly focused another thought towards Alexia's mind. _~Good girl. Now this next bit is going to be harder. I'm going to ask you questions out loud and I’m going to ask you questions just like this. When you answer the questions I ask out loud, I need you to think really hard about the answers to the questions you hear in my mind. If you can do that, tap me again.~_

It was an old procedure, and a tricky one, to fool the sensors this way. But the Hempstead center was under funded and didn't have the latest technology. They couldn't trick the newer sensors this way, by confusing the information. It was why they stuck to places like Hempstead, Westbury, Central Islip, in the first place. Of course, the downside to that was that people who lived in those territories also had more to gain for the rest of their family if they gave up a psychic child. The royalties could mean a climb to a whole different social stratum. So, Feuilly had to pick his children well. Alexia was an only child. He was banking on Mr. and Mrs. Reyes being reluctant to part with her. It didn't even bear thinking about what would happen if he'd guessed wrong.

Feuilly began running through the list of prescribed questions, while running through an entirely different list inside his own mind. The ability to split his thoughts like that, to focus so completely on things inside his head to the exclusion of the outside world, to step completely outside of linear thinking -- those things had made his life miserable as a child and now… now they had been the saving graces of at least thirty-seven children. Hopefully thirty-eight by the time today was done.

Alexia was as good as her word.

The monitor showed exactly the kinds of responses that a non-psychic child would have had. When Feuilly leaned over to pull off the electrodes, he let her find one last thought: _~You were very brave Alexia. I'm proud of you. I hope you continue to hold on to that bravery going forward. You'll need it to deal with what your mommy will find in her pocket when you leave here.~_

As Feuilly finished filling out Alexia's paperwork, he slipped a small piece of paper out of his trouser pocket and into Mrs. Reyes'. That small piece of paper contained a code. And thanks to the set of questions he'd asked, Alexia now had the pieces necessary to decode it into a name and a contact number. If the Reyes's chose to contact the person in question, it would start them down the rabbit hole of the Amis' Psychic Underground. If not… well. The 'not' didn't bear thinking about. 

Feuilly saw the Reyes's out with brisk efficiency, not giving away even one hint of what had transpired within. The next three appointments went quickly and easily, no surprises, no psychics. And that was all to the good considering how distracted Feuilly now was. Deep behind his own shields, he spent the entire day worrying about Alexia. Whatever happened to the girl was out of his hands, now. He'd done all that he could. Still… he worried.

The last appointment of the day never even made it into Feuilly's office. Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan marched right up to the desk and demanded to speak to the head of the center. Their son was psychic, they said, and they wanted their reward for turning him over. Feuilly recognized them. They'd been in the year before with a daughter, Asia, and the year before that with a son, Norbert. The records showed they'd been in the year before that, as well. Feuilly cringed. Some families were like that -- breeding themselves like horses in the hopes of producing a psychic child and claiming the benefits. It was disgusting. It was inhumane. And there was _nothing_ Feuilly could do about it. Mr. Blackwell took that appointment himself, of course; there were better kickbacks if he was the one to "discover" the child.

Feuilly clocked out that night with the image of little Kevin Sullivan's terrified face as they hauled him away already haunting him. It was no consolation that there was nothing that Feuilly could have done to save him… no consolation, at all.

* * *

It wasn't until Feuilly pulled open the door to his cramped studio apartment that he felt the tension in his shoulders ease even a fraction. Not even the memory of Alexia Reyes had helped put Kevin Sullivan from his mind, nor did the memory of Bahorel telling him to watch out for his own skin. In the past, this was a night when he and Courfeyrac would have gotten quietly drunk and fallen into a heap on the mattress, holding each other against the nightmares until dawn. Nothing more ever happened between them, but that comfort had been invaluable. Feuilly hadn't realized how long he'd been looking for such comfort and camaraderie until Patron Minette had torn it away from him.

But there was nothing for it now but to press on. To do what he could. To save as many as he could. What choice did he have?

The quiet snick of the window lock opening jerked Feuilly abruptly out of his thoughts. He was reaching for his knife before he'd even registered what he was seeing, but a moment later, a bright voice stopped his hand from even closing on it.

"I wouldn't bother, monsieur. I'm faster than you. I'd be out the window and down the fire escape before you even had that baby in your hand, and you know it."

Feuilly sighed heavily and lowered his hand. The exhaustion and frustration in his response wasn't even feigned. "Gavroche… what have I told you about sneaking in here?"

A flash of white teeth in a dark face was the boy's immediate response, then he shrugged, "Eh. Su casa es mi casa, right?"

Feuilly snorted out a short laugh and crossed the room to ruffle Gavroche's locs. "Pretty sure that _isn't_ what I said about the matter, but I guess I can let it go this time. You're already here, anyway. You hungry?"

"Starving. Always. I'm a growing boy, don't you know?" 

As Gavroche settled himself on one of the two barstools by the kitchen counter, Feuilly turned towards the kitchen and began looking for something for them to eat. He hadn't even had time to go shopping when he'd gotten in this yesterday. The best he could find was some pasta and canned meat sauce. Gavroche wrinkled his nose at the offering, but he didn't leave, so Feuilly took that as approval of sorts. As he cooked, he said nothing. Whatever Gavroche had come to tell him, he'd tell him in his own sweet time and not a minute before. Long experience had taught Feuilly that much. The silence was comfortable and, in its own way, the company was comforting. At least with Gavroche here, he wasn't alone.

It wasn't until they were both seated at the counter, plates of spaghetti in front of them, that Gavroche finally said, "They made the call. Thought you'd want to know."

Alexia Reyes.

Gavroche didn't have to say the name out loud, and Feuilly didn't dare. After today, no one ever would, again. Even so, with those words, the last of the tension from this morning finally left him. Thirty-eight. Memory or no memory, Enjolras would be happy about that. Feuilly simply nodded in response.

Another few minutes passed with the scraping of twirling forks the only sound breaking the silence. It wasn't until Gavroche laid his fork down and wiped his mouth with his napkin that he added, "I'm here to arrange a meet. Tonight. Eleven o'clock. The abandoned Shamrock station on Henry. Take it or leave it."

That was about the last thing that Feuilly had expected to hear and, when the words penetrated, his heart began to race. It wasn't that Feuilly didn't trust Gavroche, it was just… Feuilly didn't trust Gavroche. Gavroche looked out for himself and the other street kids first, last, and only. 

The last meet Gavroche had arranged had led to Enjolras' abduction. He'd never even apologized. As far as Gavroche was concerned, if an adult was too blind to see the signs of a rotten deal, it wasn't his never mind to warn them. And the profit he'd made off selling out Enjolras had probably kept his kids fed for at least a week. And that was _not_ information that Feuilly ever intended to share with Bahorel. He'd end up tying Feuilly to a chair and not letting him leave the mansion ever again all while ranting about Feuilly's poor judgment. Still… he had to at least try to find out what this was about. Because even though Gavroche couldn't always be trusted, Feuilly was one of the few adults who could see through him to know when that was the case. 

Courfeyrac had been the other.

Forcing his heart to calm, Feuilly raised an eyebrow and simply said, "Oh?"

Gavroche drank down the last of his water and nodded before hopping down off the stool and moving back towards the window. Just before slipping out into the night, he turned back to Feuilly and offered him another wide grin. "Yeah. My sister finally thinks you're ready." Giving him a swiftly assessing look, Gavroche added, "But for G-d's sake, clean up a little first. Ep appreciates a man who's well turned out." And with that last cryptic piece of advice, Gavroche was out the window and up the fire escape.

And Feuilly… Feuilly nearly fell off his own stool in shock.

Ep.

Eponine.

One of the few born to the fold who'd gotten out from under the thumb of Patron Minette. And to this day, no one knew how she'd done it. One day she was as cowed as the next kid they had ground under their heels, the next she was a gang leader in her own right and one of the only ones on the whole island who was strong enough to keep herself unaffiliated, either to the government _or_ to Patron Minette. Eponine Thenardier made her own rules and forced everyone else to live by them, and everyone who was anyone was dying to know how she'd managed it.

And now she was going to the trouble to set up a meet. With Feuilly… or with Les Amis? Right at that moment, Feuilly wished nothing more than to have his partner at his side. Courfeyrac had an instinct for these sorts of things, and he'd have been a damned sight better than "well turned out" to meet with Eponine. She had the best looking man in the city dangling from her little finger like a charm. Feuilly could never even hope to match up to Montparnasse even at his best.

Still… the least he could do was try.

Two hours later, Feuilly was back in his Mustang, heading for Henry Street and an old, abandoned gas station, with no one else knowing where he'd gone except the twelve year old boy who'd sent him there. And all he carried with him was a desperate hope that he wasn't making a tremendous mistake… and the knowledge that no one would be coming to save him if he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to come find me on tumblr at [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com)! I promise I don't bite. ^_~


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Joly stood up from his place beside Combeferre on the cot and walked over to start cleaning up the bandages and supplies he'd used, clipped, brusque efficiency in every move he made. It wasn't until he started opening and closing the cabinets, each one louder and harder than the last, that Combeferre winced. It wasn't often that Joly got angry. Sad, yes. Frustrated, yes. Impatient, yes. But truly angry? No.
> 
> Joly was angry, now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _April 12, 2015:_** Well... I'm doing better? It's only been a couple of months this time. And that's a definite improvement over the four month gaps, right? ...yeah. Yeah, I didn't think so. -.-;;; Sorry, again!
> 
> In other news, I'm going to change the rating to 'E', because more and more I'm starting to think that's the appropriate rating. Sorry about the waffling!
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/116263979922/muet-chapter-7-33-502-words-joly-stood-up-from).
> 
> * * *

Toast. Butter. One spoonful of eggs. Pinch of salt. Pinch of pepper. Coffee. No milk. One lump of sugar.

Combeferre placed each item carefully in its place, focused on the task to the exclusion of everything else. Courfeyrac had waited until Combeferre had fallen asleep, then packed up his belongings and moved them somewhere else. Combeferre didn't know where he was bunking down, now, or with whom. He didn't even feel he had a right to ask. They hadn't seen each other since, and it had been almost two days. The house wasn't that large, and Courfeyrac wasn't allowed outside on his own. Courfeyrac must be deliberately avoiding him. And that was his right, really. Combeferre didn't deserve to say two words to him, much less anything more than that.

Picking up his plate and his coffee, Combeferre moved to his place at the table -- this morning nothing more than a place to eat -- and dug into his food with determination, if not enthusiasm. He felt numb, disconnected, as though his last encounter with Courfeyrac had shut down his very ability to feel. All that was left now was this leaden cold.

By the time Combeferre finished eating and was drinking his coffee like the necessary drug it had become, others had started to filter in -- Musichetta, coming off the night shift and knuckling at her eyes; Joly, yawning his way through his breakfast preparations before sitting at the table to peruse the medical journal he'd brought with him... and Enjolras. Enjolras was smiling. And that seemed wrong. No one had the right to smile. Not on a day like this when even the sun was dark and cold.

Combeferre didn't even realize that his hand was clenching on the handle of his mug until he'd sloshed coffee out of it and onto his hand. At first, he didn't even realize what he'd done, didn't register anything but the dark liquid staining the white of his sleeve a dark brown. It wasn't until Joly gasped and ran to his side, relieving him of the mug and patting at the liquid, that Combeferre registered anything more. And what he registered then was pain. Sharp, throbbing, and unforgiving pain. As Joly hauled him to his feet, gently but firmly keeping a grip on his arm just below the elbow, Combeferre felt that pain and laughed. It was what he deserved, wasn't it? It was what they all deserved.

Musichetta and Enjolras were out of their seats now, eyes wide and hands outstretched, but Joly tut-tutted them back into their places, smiling and shaking his head, saying that it wasn't that big of a deal, just a clumsy bobble, easy to fix. Combeferre wasn't so certain. Still, he allowed Joly to lead him down the hall to the infirmary, stood passive while Joly held his hand under the flow of cold water, offered not a word of complaint as the burn was slathered with ointment and bandaged to keep it clean. It wasn't until Joly had him sitting on a cot and was running a gentle hand through his hair that he managed to say anything, at all.

"You shouldn't have bothered."

Joly's hand paused in its gentle stroking, then resumed as Joly clicked his teeth in dismissal. "Nonsense. What do you think I'm here for? Decoration?"

Combeferre sighed and pulled away from Joly's well-meaning hands. "That isn't what I meant. I meant... You know what? I don't even know what I meant."

Joly sighed, shook his head. "On the contrary, Combeferre... I think you know exactly what you meant." Before Combeferre could argue, he continued. "I think that _you_ think that you deserve to get hurt." He tucked his fingers beneath Combeferre's chin to tip his face upwards, forcing Combeferre to meet his eyes. "Because of Courfeyrac." He titled his head. "Tell me I'm wrong."

Combeferre pulled his head from Joly's grasp, turned his eyes back down to the white bandage encasing his hand, the dark stain even now licking at the edges of it where it met his sleeve. There was a metaphor there; he was sure of it. It just wasn't one he wanted to give the power of speaking it aloud to. Taking a deep breath, he said, instead, "You're not wrong."

Joly stood up from his place beside Combeferre on the cot and walked over to start cleaning up the bandages and supplies he'd used, clipped, brusque efficiency in every move he made. It wasn't until he started opening and closing the cabinets, each one louder and harder than the last, that Combeferre winced. It wasn't often that Joly got angry. Sad, yes. Frustrated, yes. Impatient, yes. But truly angry? No.

Joly was angry, now.

When the last cabinet door slammed, Joly spun back to face Combeferre, eyes wide, chest heaving as he fought for words. Finally he said, "And do you think that's what Courfeyrac would want? To see you hurt? Can you honestly look me in the eyes and tell me you believe that he'd even think you deserved it?"

Combeferre swallowed hard, shook his head. Barely able to force the words out past the sudden lump in his throat, he whispered, "No. But that doesn't mean I wouldn't."

The room wasn't large and three steps brought Joly right back into Combeferre's personal space to grab up a double fistful of his shirt and shake him. "I swear to G-d, Combeferre. If it weren't for the fact that any discord between us would just upset him more, I'd be happy to give you what you seem to want." He released Combeferre, then, his face twisting into a snarl of disgust. "You're unbelievable. This isn't your fault. This isn't his fault. And he's a mess, right now, far worse than usual, because he's convinced he ruined you, that he's broken you past repairing."

Combeferre jerked his head up at that, widened eyes meeting Joly's narrowed ones, but before he could speak, Joly continued. "Now, I hate to be the one to bring this to your attention, but whether he's right or not, whether it's fair to you or not, you _have_ to swallow it. You have to. Because if he even begins to _suspect_ that he might be right about how badly this whole thing has messed you up..." Joly slumped then, every ounce of angry tension that had been sustaining him, simply draining away. "Combeferre... you haven't seen him the last couple of days. He's teetering on the edge of being truly self-destructive. I don't even want to think about what he might do if he gets any worse. You have to pull yourself together, for his sake, if not your own. Please?" Joly dropped back onto the cot, took Combeferre's uninjured hand in his and clutched it to his chest. "Combeferre, please. You have to do this. If you don't... if you don't, I’m afraid we're going to lose him. I don't know how yet... but I know we will."

And looking into Joly's eyes, dark and wide, and so very frightened... Combeferre knew he was right. And that knowledge shook him to the core. They couldn't lose Courfeyrac. They couldn't. _He_ couldn't. Pulling his hand back from Joly, Combeferre pressed it to his mouth, fighting so hard against that lump in his throat that he thought for sure he'd choke. It had been selfish, so selfish, to feel he had the right to fall apart, even for this little while. He had the lighter burden to bear. He'd _always_ had the lighter burden. He owed Courfeyrac not to make his any heavier. But how could he act as though everything was all right? How could he put on that act and make Courfeyrac believe it enough to let go of his own pain for Combeferre and focus on his own?

Combeferre lowered his hand, his breathing harsh. "I can't... Joly, I can't do it. I can't fake being all right." He swallowed hard, nausea churning his belly and making him regret what little he'd eaten. "I'll request a transfer to another safe house. A different assignment. Anything. That's my only option. I need to leave."

Joly let out a soft moan and covered his face with his hands. " _No_ , Combeferre. That's not what I meant--"

"Joly, you don't understand. It doesn't matter." Combeferre stood and started pacing. "Courfeyrac will see right through me; he always does. If I try to put a brave face on this, he'll still know. And he'll just feel that much more guilty."

"And how do you think he'll feel if he drives you away from all your friends and the only safe haven you've ever known?" When Combeferre just shook his head, Joly growled and pushed himself to his feet, as well. "Damn it. You're not thinking straight. Combeferre, there's a price on your head. There's been a price on your head ever since you walked away from your last year of medical school and refused to finish. There's been a price on your head since you refused that government R & D position. There are reasons we keep you here. Do you think they've forgotten? Do you think they'll let bygones be bygones if they catch you? Do you think Courfeyrac would _ever_ forgive himself, knowing that he was the reason you put yourself in danger?" 

When Combeferre's only answer was to shake his head and continue pacing, Joly rolled his eyes, balled up his fist, and punched him right in the shoulder. Combeferre staggered, caught off balance in more ways than one by that punch. Joly clenched his fist again and Combeferre flinched, but this time all Joly hurled at him were words. "Losing you is _not_ a choice. If you can't forgive yourself and you can't fake it, then you have to find a way to talk to him. Whatever broke between you in the last few days, you have to find a way to fix it. For your sake. For his sake. For _all_ our sakes. If you don't... if you don't..."

Joly couldn't finish that sentence, and Combeferre was only grateful that he didn't try beyond that token attempt. He could envision all too well on his own what would happen... but he couldn't face Courfeyrac. Not now. So, in spite of what he'd told Joly, he would do his best to put a brave face on it. And he'd have to hope that Courfeyrac was willing to play along, even if he didn't believe it. Because if Joly had already gotten himself this worked up over this, then he was a short two steps away from riling up everyone else, and neither Combeferre nor Courfeyrac needed that burden added to one which was already too heavy to carry.

Sighing heavily, feeling that weight start to grow with each passing second, Combeferre slowly nodded. "All right, Joly. I'll find a way. Somehow... somehow I'll find a way to make this right."

Joly took in a deep breath and when he let it out, a smile finally found its way back to his face. "Good. That's all I would ever ask."

They parted ways, then, Joly to return to his interrupted meal, and Combeferre to his computers. And as Combeferre fled down the hall, he could feel his face flushing with shame. He didn't know why he was so sure, but he knew that he'd just lied to Joly. Unintentionally, maybe... but he’d lied. There was no making this right. Not for Combeferre. Not for Courfeyrac. Not for any of them.

* * *

Enjolras only reluctantly took his seat after Joly swooped in to manage Combeferre. Enjolras been distracted lately, hadn't noticed anything wrong with Combeferre until this morning. Odds were that whatever it was, it had to do with Courfeyrac. How could it not? Enjolras still couldn't quite believe that anything could have forced him to condone what was going on between the two of them, much less that he could have been the one to suggest it in the first place. How could he have done that to his two oldest friends? What kind of monster had he become that such a solution could ever have seemed OK? What had happened in these last two years?

Enjolras was so focused on his brooding that he didn't notice that he had company until said company's hand landed on his shoulder and nearly caused him to repeat Combeferre's earlier mishap with interest. Fortunately, Grantaire had far better reflexes than he did and steadied the coffee cup before he'd so much as bobbled it, taking it out of his hand and placing it out of reach on the table. Moments later, Enjolras felt that telltale shiver up his spine that let him know that Grantaire had something to say and he lowered his shields. They'd worked on that all night -- raising and lowering his shields -- a fact that had Enjolras both relieved and unnerved. He'd expected... well. He'd expected to pass quite a different kind of night with Grantaire than staying awake for half of it working on shield drills, then collapsing exhausted at 3 in the morning. He'd expected to wake up to Grantaire this morning, but in that, too, he'd been disappointed. Grantaire had been gone before Enjolras had woken up, off on some business that he hadn't seen to make Enjolras privy to. Turning towards Grantaire, Enjolras raised an eyebrow, indicating he was ready to listen.

"Sorry, I wasn't there when you woke up. I had a message."

Enjolras nodded, feeling a little silly answering Grantaire out loud when there were other people in the room who hadn't heard Grantaire's half of the conversation, but judging by the complete lack of reaction from the others when he did, he was the only one. Still, he leaned in close to answer, "I was worried. I thought I'd... that I'd done something wrong."

Grantaire smiled, then leaned forward to place a gentle kiss on Enjolras' forehead. "You're fine, Enjolras. You didn't do anything wrong. It really was just business."

Feeling the heat rising in his cheeks, Enjolras dropped his voice into a whisper for his next response. "If I didn't do anything wrong, then why...? Why didn't you--?" He cut himself off, frustrated. Fortunately, Grantaire understood what he couldn't quite bring himself to say.

"Why didn't we have sex last night?" When Enjolras' only response was to blush harder, Grantaire snorted. "Two reasons." At Enjolras' scowl, Grantaire sighed. "Look. I'm glad you want to work things out. I am. But while it may have been just days for you, it's been two years for me. It's been two years, and there's been a _lot_ of fucking water under that bridge." Leaning back in his chair, he shrugged. "I don't switch gears that fast. Sorry, love."

"Oh." Enjolras cleared his throat, turned his attention back to his plate long enough to push his eggs around with his fork a bit. It was difficult to grasp, this idea that he'd lost two years of his life -- two years which his friends had lived that he had no memory of -- and it wasn't getting any easier to accept. Clearing his throat again, Enjolras said, "So... the message? What... can I ask who it was?"

There was a world of pity in Grantaire's eyes when he shook his head. "I don't think that's wise, Enjolras. Not yet. The others don't trust you. And to be honest... I don't, either. I can't."

Enjolras winced at that, said quietly, "And that's the other reason we didn't have sex last night, isn't it?"

Grantaire nodded, eyes solemn. "It is. It's also the reason that, despite your generous offer the other night, I'm not letting you anywhere near Courfeyrac. I don't know what prompted you to make that offer, but on the reasonable chance that it wasn't _you_ making it... Enjolras, it's too much of a risk. But you're right. If he and Combeferre need a break -- and it's more than reasonable that they do -- then someone is going to have to take Combeferre's place. And it has to be someone who's psychic, or someone who knows Courfeyrac well enough to give him what he needs without pushing too far. And that narrows the pool by a quite a bit. Because it can't be Prouvaire. It can't be you. And Feuilly... it isn't fair to ask Feuilly to take that on in addition to everything else he does. That leaves me. And if I'm going to do that... Enjolras, you can't ask me to make love to you knowing that I'm going to have to do that to him. I... Enjolras, I don't have it in me. I'm not that strong."

Swallowing hard, Enjolras reached out to take Grantaire's hand in his, then brought it to his lips to drop a kiss into his palm. Voice rough with unshed tears, he said, "I would never ask you to do this. You know that."

"I do know that, Enjolras. But I also can't quite overlook the fact that it was your decisions that put us in a position where I'd have to do it, anyway." 

Grantaire gripped Enjolras' hand tightly, placing his own kiss across the knuckles before turning and tucking into his food. Enjolras reluctantly did the same, though he'd long since lost his appetite. It had been naïve to think that things could go back immediately to how they'd been. He saw that now. But that didn't mean he didn't wish it could be different. That he couldn't wish that after breakfast, he couldn't have invited Grantaire back to his room for a midmorning-- He blushed, again.

Grantaire didn't interrupt his eating, but his glance did flicker sideways to take in Enjolras' expression. And as he caught that blush, he smiled, then softly bumped Enjolras' knee under the table. "We'll get there, Enjolras. We will. But maybe this is a blessing in disguise. It feels... dishonest, somehow, to resolve this between us with you lacking your memories. Like I'd be taking advantage. Just have patience. And try to have faith that we'll have a tomorrow to sort it all out."

When Grantaire finished his last mouthful of food and got up from the table, Enjolras couldn't help but add, in the privacy of his own thoughts, that he hoped that when tomorrow came and he had his memory back... that he'd still _want_ to sort it out. Because with every bit of information he learned about the man he'd become in the last two years, Enjolras was less and less certain that that would be the case.

* * *

Grantaire knew every hallway, every corner, every hidden passageway of their safe house. He didn't think he was even fooling himself when he said he knew it better than Enjolras, himself. It was easy enough for him to avoid people when he had to.

Today, he had to.

Lying mind-to-mind was impossible, according to Prouvaire. Grantaire had never tried it, but he believed him too much to take that chance. So, talking to Enjolras this morning had been a risk, but it had been one that paid off. He was free and clear for the next several hours, at least. Now, if he could only avoid running into anyone else...

And thus, the back passageways.

Because Grantaire had a secret to deliver, and he couldn't afford to be intercepted. After somehow convincing to Enjolras to spend the entire night working on getting his shields back under conscious control instead of taking a step in their relationship that Grantaire was still uncertain that Enjolras wanted, they'd fallen into a deeply exhausted sleep... which had been interrupted for Grantaire barely an hour after tumbling into it. His phone had flashed with a message alert, and the text had read (in code): "Met w ET. Need meet. Bring Cf. Tell no one else."

Every single one of Grantaire's Spidey-senses, so to speak, had sounded an alarm on deciphering that message. ET -- Eponine Thenardier. No matter what Feuilly believed, no Thenardier could be trusted. Cf -- Courfeyrac. It was an unspoken rule that Courfeyrac did _not_ leave the safe house. And, to leave without telling anyone _that_ they were going, much less _where_... it was lunacy. Sheer lunacy.

But if Grantaire trusted anyone in this world, right now, he trusted Feuilly. So, he would talk to Courfeyrac and see what _he_ thought of this message... and then pray like mad that he wouldn't regret that decision.

This time of the day, Courfeyrac was usually sequestered in the library, pouring over the morning's newspapers and police reports, gauging the current political climate as best he could, plotting where a bribe would be beneficial, where a word in the right ear might ease their way. Normally, he wouldn't thank Grantaire for interrupting, but Grantaire had a feeling that that had changed, that he might welcome the change in routine. Courfeyrac had been growing more and more restless with each passing day, cooped up here as he was. He was used to being on the outside, doing direct good for people. Being stuck at the safe house in this limited capacity had been sticking in his craw for months, now. Grantaire could only hope that he wouldn't do something stupid in the name of that restlessness, that need to be away.

Grantaire reached the library ten minutes later, somehow without running into Prouvaire, or anyone else, for that matter. And Courfeyrac was exactly where he'd expected him to be... only he wasn't working. He was slumped over a table, his hands buried in his hair and tugging harshly. Within moments of Grantaire's arrival, however, he'd lifted his head... and Grantaire hoped he never had to see that look in someone's eyes ever again.

Bleak. Despairing. Tortured.

They were the eyes of a man who'd given up.

Grantaire was no precog, but with sudden, glaring certainty, he knew that this was going to end badly. He couldn't take Courfeyrac out of the house like this. He'd get them both killed -- or worse... captured. He started to back out of the room, but Courfeyrac was having none of it. Pushing himself slowly to his feet, leaning on the table as though it were the only thing keeping him upright, he said, "What do you want, R?" 

Harsh. Guttural. As ugly as Grantaire's voice at its best. He couldn't do this. Shaking his head, Grantaire backed up another pace.

Courfeyrac slumped back into his seat and let out a bitter laugh. "Are you afraid of me, R? You should be. I destroy everyone I care for, everyone who cares for me. You should run while you still have the chance."

And as simple as that... Grantaire couldn't. He approached slowly, wary of upsetting Courfeyrac further, and pulled out his phone with the decoded message. Wordlessly, he passed it over. Courfeyrac read it, then read it again. Finally he said, "This is from Feuilly?" When Grantaire nodded, he said, "Why?"

All Grantaire could offer to that was a shrug. He had his suspicions, of course -- none of them good -- but with no proof one way or another, he'd rather keep them to himself.

Courfeyrac read the message again, drummed his fingers on the table as he thought. Finally he pushed the phone back in Grantaire's direction. "We'd be breaking all kinds of rules to do what he's asking. There are reasons those rules are in place, R."

Grantaire nodded. 

Courfeyrac snorted out a short laugh. "Yeah. Of all people, I don't need to tell you that, do I?" He sighed, drummed his fingers on the table a few more times. Eventually, as though the decision had been dragged out of him, he said, "OK. There's a pool hall on Grand. He'll know the one. If we can get away at all, we can meet him there in an hour. If not... we'll know in twenty minutes."

There were reasons those rules were in place, and Courfeyrac wouldn't break them without good reason... which begged the question of what that reason was. It begged the question of what he knew that Grantaire didn't. What did Courfeyrac know that would make him agree to break every rule that had been put in place to keep him safe?

But meeting those bleak, pain-deadened eyes once more was all the reason Grantaire needed not to ask those questions... because he just knew that he wasn't going to like the answers. And having committed to this, Courfeyrac wasn't going to back down now, not without a fight that Grantaire really didn't want to have. So, they would go and meet with Feuilly, and Grantaire would just have to hope that this mission wouldn't go as disastrously wrong as their last one had... because every instinct he had was screaming at him that it had the potential to go far, far worse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Feel free to come find me on tumblr at [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com)! I don't bite... much. ^_~
> 
> (Completely unbeta'ed except for by myself. Any and all mistakes are mine alone.)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So, there it was: take a risk on his own intuition, take a chance that Eponine was trustworthy, take a chance that in so doing both he and Enjolras might be remade whole again… or go home and destroy everything and everyone he’d ever loved.
> 
> Courfeyrac made his decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _January 10, 2016:_** *tiny waves* Hello, everyone! I realize it's been awhile. To say that last semester was hard on me would be a major understatement. I drowned in last semester. *sigh* And my writing suffered in a HUGE way. Anyway, part of the reason it suffered is because I let it fall way to the bottom of the priority list and I ended up putting it off for so long that I developed a near-phobia about it. And that's not good. For so many reasons. I'm mentally healthiest when I have writing as an outlet. Not having that outlet was part of what made last semester so damned awful. So, I'm making the decision, right now, to make writing a priority again. My own mental health is way more important than all the other responsibilities I have. So. Here's hoping that means I'll be posting more regularly. ^_^
> 
> Anyway, here's hoping this chapter was worth the wait! We're finally heading into the part where the plot will start moving. I'm excited that we made it here, and hopefully you will be, too. ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/137035877277/muet-chapter-8-36357-words-so-there-it-was).

* * *

_**Tuesday, 3:27 PM** _

* * *

Solid, stripe, solid, stripe, solid, stripe, 8 ball in the center. One by one, Feuilly lifted the pool balls out of the case and placed them in the rack. Once he had them positioned, he slid the rack forward, then back, then forward again, fingers tucked into the base of the rack to pack the balls tightly into the apex. He then lifted the rack off the table, leaving a neat triangle of balls behind. Only then did he look up from the table.

“You do nice work.” A soft smile. “Then again, you always did.”

It took every ounce of self-control Feuilly had not to launch himself over the table and grab the one who’d spoken in a bear hug. He consigned himself to offering a small smile in return and saying, “One has to take pride in the things that one does or else why do them?” A pause, a shared look, before Feuilly continued. “Can I buy you a drink, sir, and perhaps tempt you into joining me for a game?”

It was almost scary how easily they slipped back into code with one another. With a glance and a question, Feuilly had indicated that he had words for Courfeyrac’s ears, alone; that they needed to speak in private. And in a wide smile and winking eye, Courfeyrac had shown that he understood.

“Well, now, who could refuse an offer like that? But as I’ve intruded on your solitude, I insist we delve into my pockets and not your own. R?” 

Unnoticed until now in Courfeyrac’s shadow, R stepped up beside him and raised an eyebrow. Courfeyrac’s smile widened and he clapped a hand on R’s shoulder. “Why don’t you go grab us a few beers while my new friend and I see about this game, hm?” 

R frowned, reaching for his back pocket, and, no doubt, his ubiquitous notepad, but Courfeyrac stopped him with a small shake of his head. R and Enjolras had had their own code, Feuilly was sure, every pair of operatives did, but R wouldn’t be privy to theirs. He wouldn’t understand. It was clear from the look in his eyes, however, that, even if he had understood, he had no intention of leaving Courfeyrac unsupervised. Feuilly didn’t blame him. If their positions had been reversed, he wouldn’t have wanted to walk away, either. But there were things Feuilly had to say to Courfeyrac that he didn’t want R to hear—that R _couldn’t_ hear. This was the only way.

Courfeyrac drew R in close to him to whisper a few words into his ear. When R drew back, his frown was deeper, his eyes narrowed, but he took the offered $20 bill from Courfeyrac’s fingers, sent one last piercing glare in Feuilly’s direction, and turned to head towards the bar. The moment he was gone, all joviality left Courfeyrac’s expression. His smile fell, his eyes narrowed, and under the guise of reaching for the chalk to chalk up his stick, he leaned in close to Feuilly and said, “It was a real feat to get me here, and I’d never have managed it without R. What do you have to say to me that he can’t hear?”

Feuilly moved away long enough to chalk up his own cue stick and move to the other end of the table for the break. What did he have to say? Nothing that he wanted to. He still wasn’t quite certain what that meeting with Eponine had been about last night, but one thing he was certain of was this: it had meant nothing good. The last thing he wanted to do was tell Courfeyrac what they had discussed… but he’d made a promise. And you simply did not break a promise to Eponine Thenardier.

So distracted was he that Feuilly only skimmed the edge of the cue ball when he lined up his shot for the break, wincing when he saw what a bungled job he’d made of it. He’d barely loosened the triangle and the cue ball was sitting right next to the other balls, chalk smudge up and facing him as though giving him the stink eye. He sighed.

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow. “That good, huh?”

Feuilly cursed under this breath as he leaned back from the table and in a moment of candor quite out of place for the intrigue of their surroundings, he said, “If it were my choice, we wouldn’t be here.” Before Courfeyrac could answer, Feuilly shook his head. “No. How long do you figure before R gets impatient with us and comes back? Five minutes? Ten at most? I’ll pass along Eponine’s offer because I made a promise to her that I would, but that is all. And I swear on the life of every child I’ve ever saved, if you consider taking her up on this for even one second, I will do my damndest to truss you up and drag you back to the house by your hair if that’s what it takes to knock some sense back into your head. You hear me?"

Courfeyrac’s eyes widened. “You’re rattled.” Feuilly opened his mouth to protest, but Courfeyrac ran right over him. “No, I mean it. She shook you up but good last night. She must have made an offer to help with this situation with Enjolras. But why would that have you so upse--? Oh. Oh, I see.” Courfeyrac lowered his head for a moment, laughing softly to himself before raising it again. “What’s her price?”

Feuilly swallowed hard against a throat gone suddenly dry. He reached for the chalk, touched up the scuffed mark on the tip of his cue stick, and then placed it precisely back down in the spot he’d picked it up from. Anything to avoid giving Courfeyrac an answer to that question. But this was what he’d promised, the thing he’d sworn on his life he would pass along. The price for her assistance. The price for the name of an unaffiliated psychic who could help them with Enjolras. The price was nothing more nor less than the very soul of Les Amis.

Forcing his eyes up from where they’d been fixed on the pool table, Feuilly met Courfeyrac’s gaze dead on. He owed him that much.

“Her price? You.”

* * *

_**14 hours earlier** _

* * *

Feuilly eased his car towards the curb, slowing and turning off his headlights as he approached the abandoned gas station that was the location for the night’s meet. There was no sign of activity, no sign of life. He didn’t know what he’d expected, but this wasn’t it. He eased forward a little further, loathe to leave his car too far away lest he need it for a fast getaway. He didn’t trust Gavroche. He wanted to, but he didn’t. He didn’t dare. Not after last time. And, having never met her, Feuilly didn’t trust Eponine, at all. Cursing himself for being ten kinds of a fool for not finding a way to bring back-up, Feuilly finally turned the key back in the ignition. The soft rattle of the idling engine fell to silence.

Feuilly crept from the relative safety of his car, slowly approaching the long defunct garage. If he’d been the one planning this meet, that was where he would be lying in wait. As he walked deeper into the shadows, his heart began to beat a frantic tattoo against his ribcage. The silence was so pervasive, so complete, that even the sounds from the road seemed muffled. Feuilly could have discovered that he was the only person left on the planet in that moment and not been surprised by the revelation. A tune jumped into his mind unbidden.

_Whenever I feel afraid… I hold my head erect…_

Four more steps brought Feuilly in line with the old gas pumps. The smell still lingered; like the smell of old death, the smell of gasoline never really left. His heart now beating so hard that it all but choked him, Feuilly forced himself to leave the shelter of the gas pump and take another step.

_And whistle a happy tune…_

One more step. Another. Feuilly stepped into the deeper darkness of the old garage, swallowing hard against the choking sensation, fighting to draw in a full breath. His head swiveled wildly in an attempt to catch any possible movement in the shadows. He was such a fool. He should have listened to Bahorel and brought a panic button, at the very least. If this went wrong, if something happened to him, no one would even know. He would be just another mystery.

_So no one will suspect…_

White teeth flashed in the darkness just moments before the garage door slammed shut behind him and the overheads flooded the sealed garage with light. Hands gripped his arms and jerked him back a pace as his breath wheezed like a dying thing in his throat. Moments later, those hands were the only things keeping him on his feet as Gavroche popped up under his nose and said, “You should see your face, man! You look about ready to shit your pants. We didn’t mean to scare you or nothin’, did we, guys?”

Feuilly couldn’t even get his racing heart under control enough to stand under his own power, much less put together enough brain cells to curse at the boy. He’d let Enjolras’ misfortune, his own worries, and the apparently deserted ambience of the place get to him, as sure a sign as any that he’d been running on his own too long. His imagination had far too much fuel these days and he had no partner to act as a buffer between it and reality. He didn’t want to admit it, even to himself, but if Gavroche and his friends had truly meant him harm in that moment… he’d have been dead.

Gavroche’s smile merely widened in response to Feuilly’s silence, then with a small jerk of his head, the two pairs of hands holding Feuilly upright abruptly let him go, their owners following Gavroche to the other side of the garage. Though his legs trembled still with reaction, Feuilly managed to keep his feet. Seeing Gavroche’s eyes fixed on a point just behind him, Feuilly turned just in time to see someone else slip into the garage from the office. Dark of skin and dark of hair, wrapped in a voluminous coat and tapping an unsheathed knife gently against pursed lips, Feuilly couldn’t help but shudder as they advanced. When a distance of only a foot separated them, the other tilted the knife forward and tapped it against Feuilly’s lips. He forced himself to remain still. If it was to be games tonight… he played to win.

They stared each other down for a minute, then two and on towards three, the silence stretched between them like a rubber band. _Any moment,_ Feuilly thought, _It will snap and take one of us down._ Then they would pick up the pieces and see what they both had left to bargain with. Power and intimidation. That was how the game was played. And right now, they held all the cards.

The silence stretched on between them, another minute ticking by. Gavroche and his friends started up a friendly game of blackjack behind them and the absurdity of the situation was suddenly more than Feuilly could stand. Squaring his shoulders, he said, “My name is Feuilly. I heard you wanted a meet. I’m here. Let’s get on with it.”

Finally a smile stretched those pursed lips, and in the twinkling gleam of eyes so dark they were nearly black, Feuilly finally saw the resemblance between the silent figure in front of him and the gleefully cackling one behind him currently cleaning up at blackjack. “You really don’t waste any time, do you, Feuilly? No sense of moment. Not like your friend. Where is Courfeyrac, these days, anyway? I miss him.” A swiftly assessing look swept up one side of him and down the other, settling into a soft expression of disdain. “He cleans up better than you do, too.”

That was the last straw. Feuilly’s fists clenched so hard he felt a knuckle pop in his left hand. He took a step forward, one that Eponine didn’t mirror, refusing to give ground even in light of Feuilly’s sudden temper. She merely turned her knife, resting the point almost delicately against the base of Feuilly’s throat. “Take one more step with that look on your face and you’ll be trying to breathe out the hole in your neck, not-as-pretty-boy.”

Feuilly froze, mouth working around words that refused to emerge. Eponine merely raised an eyebrow, waiting. Finally, Feuilly forced his hands to relax and took a step back. Raising his eyes to meet the amused gaze of the person who had followed Eponine into the garage, Feuilly spat out, “I would think you’d know better than anyone where Courfeyrac is these days. Since your boyfriend’s the one who put him there.”

Eponine turned to look over her shoulder, scowling as though she’d just realized Montparnasse was there. A flick of her wrist had him retreating back into the office and Feuilly marveled at the ease with which she commanded him. The specter of Montparnasse had hung over Les Amis like a shroud ever since Courfeyrac had been taken. And this delicate figure, this _boy_ , so quick to answer commands, was the one of whom they’d all been so afraid?

Eponine turned back, a shrug on her shoulders and a soft smile on her face. “He has his uses.” The smile fell, the point of her knife coming back to rest against Feuilly’s chest as she took another step forward. “Make no mistake, though. He’s my father’s dog and always has been. Personal uses aside, their causes aren’t mine and they’re not why we’re here.” With a brief flourish, the knife disappeared, and Eponine was all business, her tone brusque, her movements clipped. “I have something you need and you have something I want.” She leaned forward, then, and lifted her hands to bracket Feuilly’s face. She smiled again, this time wide and full of teeth. “But I don’t bargain with errand boys. So, you will deliver my message to Courfeyrac exactly as I give it to you… and _he_ will return here in 24 hours to deliver his answer to me in person. Do we have a deal?”

* * *

_**Tuesday, 3:42 PM** _

* * *

Courfeyrac paced the length of the bathroom, mind working frantically over Feuilly’s story… and Eponine’s offer. Feuilly had barely gotten the words out before R returned with their drinks, and Courfeyrac had taken that moment of distraction to retreat to the single bathroom in the back of the pool hall. He had to think. _Think_. On the surface, this was a simple matter. Turn over a crippled, useless team member for the chance to get another up and functioning, again. Anyone with half a brain would take it in a heartbeat.

…if one wasn’t the crippled team member being handed over.

Courfeyrac cursed and turned to pace back along the length of the bathroom again. Four steps, turn, repeat. Four steps, turn, repeat. Like a rat in a cage. Courfeyrac’s heart started to speed up, pounding hard in his chest. This was no choice at all, and Eponine had damned well known it when she’d asked Feuilly to deliver her message. Feuilly, R, Enjolras… if he went back to the safehouse with Eponine’s offer, they’d never allow it. They wouldn’t even allow him to entertain the idea. And Enjolras would remain locked in the past, possibly with a ticking time bomb in his head even more devastating than the one Courfeyrac carried in his. But there was no other way, and Courfeyrac knew it.

Beyond that, though—beyond all considerations of what his friends would want—Eponine owed him… and Eponine Thenardier was not one to take a life debt lightly.

So, there it was: take a risk on his own intuition, take a chance that Eponine was trustworthy, that she held her word close enough to protect him from Montparnasse, take a chance that in so doing both he and Enjolras might be remade whole again… or go home and destroy everything and everyone he’d ever loved.

Courfeyrac made his decision.

Five minutes later, when Feuilly and R finally picked the lock on the bathroom door to find out what was taking him so long… Courfeyrac was long gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! As usual, all beta'ing was done by me. Apologies for any mistakes.
> 
> Feel free to stop by on tumblr at [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com) and say hi! ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/137035877277/muet-chapter-8-36357-words-so-there-it-was).


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feuilly backed away until he hit the opposite wall. He sagged. “Just… just tell me what you want from me. I’m barely up for these mind games with you when I’m at my best, and I’m sure as hell not at my best, now.”
> 
> Prouvaire smiled, and it was a feral smile, all teeth. [I don’t want anything from you, Feuilly. As always, it’s only ever your partner that I’ve been interested in. He fascinates me.] Prouvaire tipped his head back against the wall, his arms coming up to wrap around himself. [I've never met anyone who wasn't psychic who had a mind as convoluted as mine until I met him. He wouldn't have just handed himself over. He had something up his sleeve when he decided to go along with this. He may not have told you, and he may not have told R, but rest assured… that man does nothing without a contingency plan. His contingency plans have contingency plans. And I, for one, do not want to miss it when this one comes to fruition.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _March 26, 2017:_** ...better late than never? I'm not going to bother throwing out excuses. Life has been hectic and my mental health hasn't been the best, and all the usual stuff that goes along with that. But I'm not going to dwell on how long it took me to get this chapter out. I'm going to focus on the fact that I got a chapter out, at all. Hopefully you enjoy it? ^_^
> 
> (And, uh... just ignore the screaming in the background. It's probably my students complaining about how I did this instead of grading their papers. ^_~)
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/158858753237/muet-chapter-9-39786-words-feuilly-backed).
> 
> * * *

[I wonder what’s for breakfast.]

[Fuck, I hate night shifts. Maybe I can talk Bahorel into taking the next one.]

[Ugh. Who made this coffee? Is it even coffee? Blech.]

[—remember to ask Bossuet to go on another drug raid soon. We’re out of—]

[—hell is Grantaire? We were supposed to—]

[—swear to fuck if someone else comes near me before I’ve had coffee—]

[—kill him next time, I swear.]

[Is that eggs and toast, again? Ugggggh.]

[Combeferre looks like shit. Maybe I should just drug him tonight and save us all—]

[Seriously is this colored dishwater? Who the hell made the coff—]

Prouvaire rolled slowly upright, one shaking hand braced against his temple and a snarl on his lips. Three years. He’d been here three years already and _still_ —

[Damn it, where did I put that report…?]

A scream had been building in his throat since he’d woken, tightening his chest and cutting off his air. And when that last thought barreled its way through Prouvaire’s mind, capstone to a thousand other inanities that he’d been privy to since Grantaire had woken him with his stress-addled thoughts this morning, he finally couldn’t take it anymore. Tipping his head back, Prouvaire screamed.

For one blessed moment, the entire safe house was silent. Then it started again, louder than before, frantic, and all focused on him. Prouvaire slid off the bed to press himself into the corner, hands clamped to his head and knees tight to his chest. No escape. None at all. Prouvaire whimpered, slammed his head back into the wall once, twice, three times, before burying his face in his knees.

[Shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up, shut up!!]

Prouvaire’s body twisted, one moment curling even tighter, another moment attempting to bury itself in the wall, in the floor, in the rumpled bed beside him. The voices rose, wailing into an unbearable cacophony that he couldn’t even begin to unravel, that he didn’t even _want_ to unravel. Voices on top of voices on top of voices. One voice rose above all the others, screaming fit to tear itself apart. He just wanted them _silent_.

It wasn’t until strong arms pulled Prouvaire against an even stronger chest that the agonized screaming cut off. But it wasn’t until much later that Prouvaire’s ravaged throat clued him in that the one who’d been screaming… was him. For now, he let himself be rocked and shushed, let himself be held and murmured to. Strong hands ran fingers through his hair, gently carding through the tangles and smoothing down his back. He knew those hands.

When Prouvaire finally lifted his head, Bahorel offered him a small smile. “Bad night?”

At the double echo of those words, aural and mental, and thus far louder than Bahorel had intended them, Prouvaire jerked himself out of Bahorel’s hold and onto his feet, then began furiously pacing the room. When Bahorel opened his mouth to speak, Prouvaire didn’t even wait for the words to emerge before he was snarling out an answer to the next question. “No, I haven’t seen Courfeyrac, this morning. Why? Have you misplaced him?”

[Yes.]

[Shit. I didn’t mean to—]

Prouvaire stopped his pacing and lowered his hands. He smiled. “Well… well… well… Isn’t _that_ interesting.” His attention caught, Prouvaire was finally able to push the other voices to the side, to ignore the banalities of a houseful of people going back to their morning routines, to focus on the puzzle right in front of him. He laughed, low and full, as he returned to the corner to straddle Bahorel’s legs. As Bahorel’s hands came up reflexively to brace his hips, Prouvaire leaned in and whispered into his ear, “How do you know he hasn’t just hidden himself somewhere?”

Bahorel shivered and Prouvaire laughed, leaning further into him, rocking against him just enough to produce another shiver. He froze then, head cocking to one side at Bahorel’s next thought. “R is missing, too?” When Bahorel closed his eyes and his head filled with a litany of curse words, Prouvaire started to laugh. He continued to laugh even when Bahorel pushed him off his lap and stood, that mental litany getting louder and more foul with each passing second.

Maybe today wouldn’t be so terrible, after all.

* * *

By lunchtime, everyone knew that Courfeyrac and Grantaire were missing. Grantaire’s car was gone, suggesting that at least _he_ had left willingly. No one had seen hide nor hair of Courfeyrac since early that morning at breakfast. Combeferre had locked himself in his room, frantically searching the security footage for any clue as to where they’d gone. One brush against him had been more than enough to convince Prouvaire to stay far the hell away from that mess. Even so, the echo of Combeferre’s periodic weeping and crippling self-recriminations became a haunting backdrop to Prouvaire’s entire day. It made him twitchy. And if there was one thing Prouvaire didn't need, it was something else to make him twitchy.

Enjolras was no better. He spent the afternoon tearing around the safehouse, getting underfoot, and snapping at everyone when they tried to get him to back off. Musichetta had finally lost her patience and tossed him out of the briefing room, her mind filled with dark muttering about how this time she almost hoped he’d wander out to the sunroom so that a sniper could put him out of her misery. Prouvaire had laughed a little too hard and a little too long at that and had been tossed out, himself, almost immediately afterwards. With nothing better to do, and his mood lightening by the minute at the extent of the game Courfeyrac and R had successfully played, and its effect on everyone at the safehouse, Prouvaire followed Enjolras.

As wide open as Enjolras was, it wasn’t that hard.

[Where are they?]

[This is all my fault.]

[So fucking _useless_.]

[What am I supposed to do?]

Prouvaire pushed open the door to the sunroom to find Enjolras curled up in that old armchair he loved, arms wrapped around himself, practically gnawing on his bottom lip in his worry. Not so fearless, now, eh, fearless leader? Prouvaire owed Enjolras plenty for this safe haven. He owed him even more for the trust Enjolras had placed in him. Prouvaire would have _liked_ to return the favor. Damn Courfeyrac for interfering.

Then again… Courfeyrac wasn’t here, was he?

Turning that thought over in his mind, Prouvaire smiled. Step by careful step, he stalked closer to where Enjolras was hunched over in the chair. Sliding onto the ottoman, Prouvaire leaned in, gently started stroking Enjolras’ legs, then those tightly crossed arms, then his face. By the time Enjolras began to cotton on to what Prouvaire was about to do… it was far too late.

Enjolras still hadn’t gotten into the habit of keeping his shields raised when Grantaire wasn’t around, so it was barely the work of half a second for Prouvaire to gain entry. Enjolras tried to fight him then, to push him out of his mind, but Prouvaire had been at this for far longer, and he was far better at it than Enjolras. To Prouvaire, all of Enjolras’ best efforts at fighting him off were no more than the ineffectual flailing of a child being picked up and put into time out.

Out in the world, Enjolras was now rigid in the chair, eyes staring sightlessly ahead as his jaw worked. In here… in here he begged, cried, pleaded for Prouvaire to let him go. Prouvaire was having none of it. If this was the one opportunity he was to have, then he was going to take full advantage of it and do what he’d been brought here to do.

Dragging Enjolras with him, Prouvaire inspected everything. Thoughts, memories, hopes and dreams… loves. Prouvaire laid everything bare. But when he got right down to it, finally found the memories of what had happened the night Enjolras lost his memory, he hit a wall. It wasn’t a mental block of Enjolras’ own devising to hide something traumatic. It wasn’t a physical injury from which he would recover with time. And no drug Prouvaire had ever heard of could have caused this. It wasn’t natural. Someone had built it. This was proof.

Enjolras’ mind had been tampered with… and even as strong as he was, Prouvaire wasn’t strong enough to fix it on his own.

They needed help.

Prouvaire pulled out of Enjolras’ mind, far more gently than he went in, then caught him as he slumped in the chair, mercifully unconscious. With speed such a necessity, Prouvaire had been less than careful. He’d be surprised if Enjolras escaped this day’s work with less than a full-blown migraine.

…perhaps telling Joly about this little adventure wouldn’t be such a bad idea.

* * *

Two hours after Prouvaire got Enjolras settled in the infirmary, and an hour and 45 minutes after sitting through a thoroughly boring yet impressive harangue by Joly, there was finally news. And, as soon as Bahorel knew, Prouvaire knew. Bahorel’s mental outcry was too loud to be missed. Feuilly was coming in, he was bringing R with him… and Courfeyrac was gone.

It was a solemn, sorry group that gathered in the garage as Feuilly and R pulled in. Prouvaire grinned as R raised drooping eyes to meet his gaze when he stepped out of his car. [So, R… I hear you’ve been busy.]

[Stuff it, Prouvaire. I’m in no mood.]

Prouvaire quieted. He wasn’t above provoking a fight, and he’d been spoiling for one since this morning. But the exhaustion was so heavy in R’s mind that it almost dragged Prouvaire down with him from that one contact, alone. Besides… he could hear Enjolras’ confused and pained grumbling from all the way across the house. Their fearless leader was awake… and he was pissed. Prouvaire grinned. Why get his own hands dirty when Enjolras was about to do it for him?

By the time they relocated to the briefing room, Enjolras had shaken off Joly and joined them. It didn’t take long to catch him up to speed. Prouvaire kept a close eye as they did, waiting, watching… wondering whether whatever was behind that wall would rear its head and reveal itself now that Prouvaire had gone and poked at it with a stick. Yet, even in this, Prouvaire was to be disappointed. Enjolras stayed Enjolras… and one thing became abundantly clear as Feuilly and Grantaire struggled to explain what had happened. Enjolras was no longer just pissed. He was _furious_.

* * *

“What the hell were you _thinking??_ ”

Feuilly winced, breath catching in his throat at the harshness of that attack. He’d known the others would be angry. He’d known they wouldn’t understand. He’d known that he would catch hell for daring to tempt Courfeyrac out of the safehouse to begin with, and that had been when he’d assumed he’d be returning with him, too. Now?

Enjolras lurched forward in Bahorel’s hold, eyes wide and wild, hands clenched so tightly into fists that his knuckles were stark white. “Well? What were you thinking? _Were_ you even thinking? What the hell possessed you?” When Feuilly opened his mouth to say something, to say _anything_ , in his own defense, Enjolras lunged forwards, once more, just barely catching Feuilly’s shirt in his hands before Bahorel yanked him back again. “Don’t you dare try to defend what you did! _There is no defense for what you did._ ”

Before Feuilly could even think to respond to that, Enjolras flinched back in a harsh wince of his own, his hands rising to clutch at his head as he jerked around to stare at Grantaire. Moments later, his face drained of all color, something made all the more startling by how deeply red he flushed a moment later as he jerked against Bahorel’s hold again, screaming, “And you’re _defending_ him? You? You’re just as much to blame as he is!”

Grantaire’s jaw locked then, and his fists came up in a boxing stance. Before he could take a swing, however, Enjolras abruptly slumped in Bahorel’s arms.

In the dead silent aftermath, Joly stepped out from where he’d been standing behind Bahorel, syringe in hand, no sign that any of the raging tension in the room had affected him at all. “That’s quite enough of that, don’t you think?”

Feuilly had a feeling that they were all thinking it, but of course it was Prouvaire who stepped up and said it, a wide smile on his face. “Joly… there are times when you are terrifying, my friend.” At Joly’s twisted frown, Prouvaire shrugged, one hand rising to brush the tip of his braid over his lips. “Yes, yes, I know, I know. We can all appreciate the irony of that coming from me, so I’ll thank you to button your lips over a response unless you can come up with something a bit more original.” Moments later, his lips twisted into a sneer and he half-turned, the better to flip Musichetta the bird. When he turned back to face Joly, he said only, “Trust me. She deserved it.”

“OK, enough!” When all eyes abruptly landed back on him, Feuilly winced. Still. Someone had to step up, and he at least had all the facts. “It would be naiveté of the worst order for me to tell you I didn’t expect this to happen. And I’m not that naïve. I knew this could happen.” Feuilly raised a hand to run at his temple. “If I’m being honest, I knew this _would_ happen. Still, I stand by my decision. It was the right one. No matter what Enjolras obviously thinks.”

“How can you _possibly_ say that?”

Feuilly had been expecting another attack. He’d been expecting anger. He hadn’t been expecting this. Quiet. Rough. The sound of a thousand tears caught in a throat that could barely force words past them. Feuilly turned.

Combeferre was standing in the doorway, clutching at the doorjamb with his unbandaged hand as if it were the only thing keeping him upright. He spoke again. “The Thenardiers have Courfeyrac. _Montparnasse_ has Courfeyrac. How can a decision that led to that possibly have been the right one?”

A hand landed on Feuilly’s shoulder and offered a light squeeze. He didn’t even have to look to know who it belonged to. It could only be Grantaire. At least he had that much support. Feuilly said, “Because it wasn’t my decision to make. It wasn’t Grantaire’s or yours or Enjolras’. It was _Courfeyrac’s_. That offer was for him, alone. So, he, alone, had the right to decide if he would take it.” The quiet murmuring that had started among the other Amis when Combeferre had first spoken abruptly stopped. Feuilly shrugged. “Over the past two years, we’ve all gotten used to making his every decision for him. We decided that he needed to be functional more than he needed to be healthy. We decided that he needed to be safe more than he needed to be free. We decided that he needed to be able to think clearly more than he needed to not be hurt. And I’ve got news for you. Every single decision we’ve made for him in the last two years has been a bad one. Every. One.”

Feuilly shrugged off Grantaire’s hand and turned back to face the rest of the crowd, his own hands finally clenching into fists as he turned. “Letting Courfeyrac make his own choice? That was the first good decision any of us has made regarding him in two years. I’m just sorry it took Eponine forcing my hand to get me to make it.” 

Taking a deep breath, Feuilly forced his hands to relax. “Now, you can stand here and keep throwing blame around if you want, but I’m going to get back out there, put my ear to the ground, and try to figure out what this was all about to begin with.”

In the stunned silence that followed that proclamation, Feuilly turned on his heel and left the room. Before he’d gotten even halfway down the hall, a voice slithered into his mind.

[You take on Montparnasse and the Thenardiers alone and you’ll end up no better off than Courfeyrac, you know.]

Feuilly spun, hands coming up in a defensive posture that he knew would be useless even as he assumed it. Prouvaire didn’t need to overpower anyone physically to have them at his mercy. Feuilly forced himself to lower his hands as he replied, “Well, I didn’t see anyone else volunteering to help.”

Prouvaire stepped out of the shadows at the other end of the hall, his eyes fairly glittering with unholy glee. [You didn’t exactly give them the opportunity.] When Feuilly raised a hand to rub at his temple, Prouvaire’s smile widened to match the gleam in his eyes. [You’ve run alone for a long time, Feuilly. A very long time. Why is that?] Prouvaire tilted his head to the side, brought the end of his braid up to brush against his lips. [Could it be you have something to hide?]

Feuilly’s hands were fisted in Prouvaire’s shirt, lifting him partway up the wall to slam him against it, before Feuilly even realized he was planning to move. “You have something you want to accuse me of, why don’t you just come out and say it?”

Prouvaire just laughed.

Disgusted with how easily he’d been provoked, Feuilly loosened his hold and dropped Prouvaire back to the ground. He knew better. This was what psychics _did_. They poked and prodded and scraped and picked away at your defenses until you offered up the very thoughts they were looking for without them having to lift a finger. If Feuilly _had_ had anything to hide, Prouvaire would, no doubt, know every sordid detail by now. Prouvaire’s smirk was all the confirmation he needed that he was right.

Feuilly backed away until he hit the opposite wall. He sagged. “Just… just tell me what you want from me. I’m barely up for these mind games with you when I’m at my best, and I’m sure as hell not at my best, now.”

Prouvaire smiled, and it was a feral smile, all teeth. [I don’t want anything from you, Feuilly. As always, it’s only ever your partner that I’ve been interested in. He fascinates me.] Prouvaire tipped his head back against the wall, his arms coming up to wrap around himself. [I've never met anyone who wasn't psychic who had a mind as convoluted as mine until I met him. He wouldn't have just handed himself over. He had something up his sleeve when he decided to go along with this. He may not have told you, and he may not have told R, but rest assured… that man does nothing without a contingency plan. His contingency plans have contingency plans. And I, for one, do not want to miss it when this one comes to fruition.] 

Prouvaire peeled away from the wall, then, and stepped up right into Feuilly’s personal space. Feuilly’s breath caught and, even knowing the wall was directly behind him, he couldn’t stop himself from pulling back as far away from Prouvaire as he could. Prouvaire followed him, sliding his hands up to grip Feuilly’s waist and nuzzling a kiss into the nape of his neck. When Feuilly shuddered in reaction, Prouvaire huffed out a laugh against his skin. [I find that I’m as sick of being cooped up here as Courfeyrac was. And Feuilly… like it or not, you need me. So why don’t you just lie back and try to enjoy it… partner?]

Ten minutes after Prouvaire left him alone, Feuilly was still pressed to the wall, heart hammering in his chest and primal terror screaming in his mind. It was Grantaire who found him. It was Grantaire who coaxed him away from the wall with gentle hands and soft eyes. It was Grantaire who sat him down in the kitchen and forced a glass of brandy into his hands, and it was Grantaire whose eyes were full of too much understanding as he took back the glass and then held it up to Feuilly’s lips so that Feuilly could drink without sloshing the alcohol all over himself and the table.

Because Grantaire understood.

Feuilly had been lucky in that his duties had kept him far, far away from their resident psychic. Not like Grantaire. Grantaire’s lack of speech had forced him to rely on Prouvaire to have someone to talk to when he couldn’t deal with Enjolras. Prouvaire played these games with Grantaire every day he was in the safehouse. But Feuilly… Feuilly wasn’t ready for this. He didn’t think he ever would be. Prouvaire was right about one thing, though—if Feuilly wanted to emerge intact from tangling with the demons that were Montparnasse and the Thenardiers, he’d have to have a demon of his own on his side. He would need Prouvaire. He just had to hope that, in the end, he’d be able to pay the price on this particular deal… and that the price wouldn’t be his very soul.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely unbeta'ed, except by me. So, even more so than usual, any and all mistakes are purely mine.
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com), if you'd like to chat. I promise I don't bite. Much. ^_~


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eponine smiled and, in that bright smile, Feuilly finally saw the resemblance to Gavroche. “Well, I have to do something to amuse myself when my boyfriend—your word, not mine—is otherwise occupied, don’t I?”
> 
> When her boyfriend… was otherwise… occupied…
> 
> Courfeyrac.
> 
> Feuilly had never held with colorful metaphors for emotions, always preferred to just say how he felt straight out, but right then, at those words, he finally understood what it meant to see red. His vision washed out completely and his entire body flushed hot, then cold. Everything else was swept away in his need to get his hands around Eponine’s throat and dig until red was all he saw.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _September 4, 2017:_** Good grief, my writing gears have been rusty this summer. *sigh* I guess that's what happens when you agree to teach most of the time you should be resting. :P Anyway... I'm doing better, though! It's only been 6 months this time, instead of a year or more, and I actually have a decent part of the next chapter plotted already, too! So, that's not nothing, right? ^_^ Anyway, for those of you still patiently with me, I appreciate you more than I can say. You keep me writing, even when it feels like pulling teeth. So, thank you!
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/164984500272/muet-chapter-10-45280-words-eponine-smiled).
> 
> * * *

Enjolras woke, and the world tilted. Pressing a trembling hand to his aching head, he pushed himself slowly upright, eyes squeezed shut to prevent the world from rocking any further. What the hell had happened?

“You had an eventful day, Enjolras. So, in the interest of letting the rest of us have an uneventful night, I drugged you.”

Joly.

Moments later, a hand reached out to brace Enjolras’ forehead, prelude to a bright light being shined into his eyes. He winced and instinctively pulled back, but that hand held him firmly in place. Once he stopped fighting, the light began moving swiftly back and forth—right eye, down, left eye, down, and so on for three more passes—and the light spots left to dance behind his eyelids did not do anything to help Enjolras’ sense of stability.

Seconds later, a subtle shiver ran up Enjolras’ spine. While normally that shiver was no more of a sensation than the tickle of a feather running over the back of his hand, this time it felt more like a knife, and that knife cut deeply. Enjolras cried out, clutching tightly at his head as the world tilted even more violently than it had before and threatened to take his stomach along for the ride.

Hurried footsteps brought Joly back to his bedside, each sound he made as he moved as amplified as though they were in an echo chamber. “I know you’re just trying to get his attention, R, but Prouvaire left a huge damned mess behind himself yesterday. I don’t think he’s going to be up to any kind of telepathy for a while, yet.” There was a moment of silence, accompanied by a flurry of activity to his left—Grantaire. Joly sighed, “Write it down. I’ll tell him later.”

Once Grantaire had scrawled out a hurried note and gone, with only a brief squeeze of Enjolras’ shoulder to express his concern, Enjolras turned back to Joly and asked quietly, “It’s been two years… why hasn’t anyone bothered to learn sign language for him?”

Joly let out a quiet snort as he stepped off to the side to prepare an injection— _please, let that be pain medication_ —moving quickly and efficiently about the small infirmary. “Do you think no one suggested it?” At Enjolras’ shrug, Joly sighed, shook his head. “We did, Enjolras. Believe me, we did. But, you know R. He’s stubborn. He still _has_ a voice, he just thinks it’s too ugly to use. And since it’s his own bullheadedness keeping him from being able to communicate vocally, he doesn’t want to put everyone else through learning a whole new way to communicate just to accommodate him.”

“But… it wouldn’t be just… You need to give him a reason that it would benefit other people, not just him. And, it _would_ be useful on mission. Did anyone think to tell him that?” Enjolras winced, done in by the volume of his own voice ricocheting in his head.

Joly came back, sliding the needle neatly into Enjolras’ IV line to inject its contents. As they both waited for the drug to take effect, Joly reached out and started carding his fingers through Enjolras’ hair. The drugs— _pain medication, thank fuck_ —started taking effect halfway through that gentle massage. As Enjolras started to relax, Joly moved away, taking up a perch on the seat Grantaire had vacated, slumping so deeply into the chair that it was a wonder he didn’t slide right off. “Enjolras… we tried. That was Bahorel’s best argument, and R still wouldn’t hear it. You were there for that. You just don’t remember.” 

Joly dropped his head into his hands, rubbing his fingers over the bridge of his nose and around his sinuses. Eventually he spoke again, his voice muffled by his hands. “I’m not going to sit around beating dead horses with you, Enjolras. Especially not ones that you and I have already beaten more than once. You want to try suggesting it, again, be my guest. I’m done beating my head against that particular brick wall.” Abruptly, he raised his head, pinning Enjolras in place with his glare. “Apparently, I’ve a new brick wall to beat my head against.”

Enjolras shrank back from the intensity in Joly’s stare. Joly was usually the most mild-mannered of the lot of them, but lately… Between Courfeyrac, R, Combeferre, Prouvaire, Enjolras— it really was a wonder that Joly hadn’t exploded before now. It was just Enjolras’ bad luck to be the straw that broke the camel’s back. Joly leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, his brows drawing together. “Which brings us around to you. What the fuck were you thinking yesterday?”

“I—“ Enjolras winced, remembering. “I don’t know.” Joly’s eyebrows both rose nearly to his hairline at that. Before he could say something even more damning, Enjolras continued. “I really don’t! I just… fuck.” Enjolras hung his head, something deep and raw burning at the back of his throat, choking off his voice. Was this how Grantaire felt when he tried to speak, now? Was this how Courfeyrac had felt whenever Enjolras made decisions for him, not even letting him have a say?

…was this how Feuilly had felt when Enjolras had attacked him yesterday for daring to do the right thing, no matter the cost?

“…Feuilly didn’t deserve that.” Enjolras swallowed hard, trying to get the ground glass feeling out of the back of his throat before he spoke again. “He didn’t— I don’t know why I— He really didn’t deserve that.”

Joly’s expression had gentled by the time Enjolras managed to look up again. He gripped Enjolras’ knee, his hand a gentle warmth through the cloth of Enjolras’ pants. “No. He didn’t. Because he was right, Enjolras, and I think you know it. And when he comes back, you should probably tell him that.”

“When he— what?” Enjolras jerked forwards, eyes wide. “Where did he go?”

Joly stood up, started cleaning up his medical supplies. “I think it’s best for all concerned that I don’t tell you exactly where, but I can tell you that Eponine Thenardier set another meet. Feuilly left two hours ago and took Prouvaire with him.” He turned back to face Enjolras, arms crossed over his chest. “It seems Courfeyrac struck a deal. The price he named for turning himself over was an introduction for Les Amis to an unaffiliated psychic, someone who can help Prouvaire untangle the mess he found when he was rummaging around in your head yesterday. Apparently it’s more than he can handle on hit own.”

“Unaffiliated… Joly, _how_?”

“You think I know? Until Prouvaire told me, I thought the only psychics unaffiliated with the government were those like Montparnasse—too damaged to be useful except in placements like Patron Minette where they do work so dirty even the government doesn’t want that association—and those like Prouvaire, so deeply in hiding it doesn’t matter what they do. But this one isn’t like that. According to Eponine, this one’s credentials are unimpeachable. And if that’s true… if they can be trusted, maybe we can finally get you sorted back out. And I hate to say it, but if we can… I agree with Courfeyrac. It’ll be worth it. Having access to a second psychic means that it will be possible to actually undo government conditioning, not just for you, but for anyone. And that’s definitely worth the price.” Joly ran his hand through Enjolras’ hair once more. “And… that’s enough for now, I think. Looks like those drugs are finally kicking all the way in. Let’s get you lying down—”

“Wait!” Enjolras grabbed Joly’s hand before he could push him all the way down. “Grantaire’s note…?”

Joly smiled softly as he finished tucking Enjolras back under the covers. “I’d tell you that whatever it was, it could wait, but I know you better than that.” He handed over the note. “He just wanted you to know that he was around if you needed anything, Enjolras. That’s all. Now will you sleep? You’ve still got a way to go to recover from yesterday.”

When Enjolras nodded, Joly’s smile widened. “Good.” He walked away, then, dimming the light in the room to a soft glow as he left. Enjolras unfolded the note. Moments later, he was wearing a soft smile of his own. Joly had been correct about the meaning of the message, but he’d thoroughly botched Grantaire’s delivery. After reading it, Enjolras folded it back up and tucked it neatly under his pillow. Sleep came far more easily than he expected, even with the drugs in his system, Grantaire’s words and Joly’s warm concern acting like talismans against any bad dreams that might have been waiting to chase him down.

~You jerk— Try to check out of medical against Joly’s wishes again and I will personally hand your ass to you on a silver platter. You’re as useless as I am the way you are now. So, go down and stay down until you’re better. –Yours, R~

* * *

Feuilly pulled his jacket a little tighter around himself, shivering despite the fleece lining. It was colder than usual for this time of year—more like November than mid-October—and was verging on too cold for meetings of any length out-of-doors. Still, Eponine had insisted they meet here, so that was where they would meet. Prouvaire had chosen one of the nearby picnic tables to perch on, and with one foot braced on a bench and the other cocked on the table, as well as the earbuds and phone he’d produced as props, he looked just like any of the other young people sprawled around the picnic tables. If Feuilly hadn’t known… but that was really the whole point, wasn’t it? Government psychics were trained to blend in. They were trained to be unobtrusive when out amongst the public. They were trained so that you’d never notice them until they were in your head, tearing apart your mind and remaking it into whatever image had been chosen.

Forcibly reminding himself that Prouvaire was not his enemy, not now, Feuilly turned back to scanning the rest of the tables and the trees beyond them. Most of the trees had already dropped most of their leaves, prelude to the coming cold. Those few that remained, desperately hanging on to their branches, had left gold, orange, and red long behind and were now the brittle brown of cold earth.

Feuilly could sympathize.

To Feuilly’s left was an older couple—dark skin mostly hidden by warm coats, fashionable but not trendy, cashmere scarves draped loosely around their necks, holding hands as they drank from thermos cups. To his right, a young girl and an even younger boy were playing in the leaves that had fallen in the picnic area—sister and brother by the volume of the argument in which they were engaged, equally bundled as the older couple, dark hair covered in wool hats, as well. The picnic bench directly in front of him held a group of teenagers, none as well protected against the elements as the older couple or the two children. Feuilly smiled, remembering. Time was, the only thing he’d had to prove was how well he could brave the cold without a coat. After all, if he didn’t need a coat, then why feel bad about not having one that was warm enough?

There was a young woman behind him and slightly to his left; he’d caught a glimpse as she walked past, an itch developing between his shoulder blades as she settled behind him where he couldn’t clearly see her. He’d gotten the barest impression of dark hair-white beret-white wool coat-red scarf-light-brown-skin, but she’d moved past him too fast to say more without turning to look and he had no desire to be so obtrusive. She’d carried a book in one hand and a hot beverage in the other. Between her and the older couple, Feuilly was soon wistfully thinking of a hot drink of his own and cursing the fact that he hadn’t thought to bring one. There was a Girl Scout troop off in the woods, tromping about as they picked up after those who hadn’t had the grace to pick up after themselves. There was probably a merit badge involved for them. The cool weather had kept most others away.

Just as Feuilly was about to get up and take a short walk about the picnic area to stretch his legs and see if there was anyone else lurking around, there was a telltale shiver against his shields.

[Check your 4 o’clock. You have company.]

Prouvaire, not even lifting his head from his phone. Feuilly turned to his right just enough to catch a glimpse behind him. Sure enough, there was Gavroche. Right on time, if Feuilly felt like being fair about it. Gavroche slid onto the bench across from him, his smile all teeth. “How’s it hanging, friend?”

“I have one friend crippled, one friend lost to me entirely, and your sister has me at a distinct disadvantage. How _should_ I be, Gavroche?” 

“Well, I’d be fuming mad if I were you,” was Gavroche’s bright retort. Feuilly’s hands clenched beneath the table, far from prying eyes, but still Gavroche laughed and reached out a foot to tap one of them. “And I’d say you are.”

Before Feuilly could even formulate an answer, much less utter it, someone’s hands clamped down on his shoulders, cold and hard. Feuilly tried to rise, to shake them off, heart pounding in his chest like the frantically beating wings of a caged bird, but slim as those hands were, they were strong, and their owner immovable as a boulder. 

Those hands clamped tighter on Feuilly’s shoulders and their owner leaned forward, chest brushing against Feuilly’s back as a voice whispered in his ear. “Easy, now, not-so-pretty boy, or someone will get the idea that you aren’t happy to see me.”

Eponine.

As Eponine shifted to Feuilly’s right to straddle the bench beside him, Gavroche started to laugh. Small trickles of tears leaked from his eyes as his entire body hunched in on itself in an effort to control his mirth. “Oh, man. Oh, man, the look on your face! Swear to fuck, I thought you were gonna wet yourself!”

Feuilly’s hands clenched tighter. He refused to give away Prouvaire’s position through any actions of his, but the desire to look up and glare in his direction was almost overwhelming. There’d been no warning. Why had Prouvaire given no warning? Instead, Feuilly turned to face Eponine. “So. You get off on scaring me. Why am I not surprised?”

Eponine smiled and, in that bright smile, Feuilly finally saw the resemblance to Gavroche. “Well, I have to do something to amuse myself when my boyfriend—your word, not mine—is otherwise occupied, don’t I?”

When her boyfriend… was otherwise… occupied…

Courfeyrac.

Feuilly had never held with colorful metaphors for emotions, always preferred to just say how he felt straight out, but right then, at those words, he finally understood what it meant to see red. His vision washed out completely and his entire body flushed hot, then cold. Everything else was swept away in his need to get his hands around Eponine’s throat and dig until red was all he saw.

[Feuilly!]

Prouvaire’s voice was a whiplash against his mind and Feuilly snarled at the sudden pain.

[Feuilly, I’m serious. Leash it. Leash it, now, or I’m going to take over your mind and have this conversation for you. She’s provoking you deliberately, and you know it. We won’t get what we need this way. Calm down.]

Later, Feuilly would be hard pressed to figure out what had stopped him in that moment—the fact that Prouvaire was right or the fact that he wouldn’t have hesitated to make Feuilly his literal puppet if he had stepped even one toe across the line. Either way, Prouvaire’s words gave him back just enough control to unclench his fists and relax, to put any thoughts of what Montparnasse might be doing to Courfeyrac at that very moment out of his mind. Pressing the palms of his hands deliberately against the wood of the bench, Feuilly said, “Alright. You’ve had your fun at my expense, and I’ve upheld my end of the bargain. Where is this psychic of yours?”

“Eponine?”

At that softly spoken, tremulous word, both Feuilly and Eponine turned to look towards its source. A young man was standing not three feet from the table, a wool cap clutched in his hands and being slowly crushed out of all semblance of shape. Brown hair so dark it was nearly black, brown eyes, pale skin, black coat, black hat. And none of that mattered. What mattered was how Eponine’s breath drew in sharply at the sight of him.

“Eponine, please. I know you said— I know that you—” He hung his head, hands clenching even more tightly at his cap. “I have nowhere else to go. I can’t— Eponine, I can’t stay there even one day more.” His voice dropped even further, now, a whisper that Feuilly had to strain to hear. “One day more is going to be one day too many.”

Eponine rose from her seat on the bench, reached out to take the young man’s desperately clenching hands in hers. He immediately turned his grip from the cap to Eponine’s hands. She petted and soothed, showing more compassion in that moment that Feuilly had ever seen her show in the sum total of interactions he’d ever had with her. When the young man calmed, Eponine said, “We’ve been over this. I won’t have anywhere safe to put you for at least another day, and you can’t stay with me.”

The man’s nostrils flared wildly, his eyes widening into a white-rimmed look of panic. “Eponine, you don’t understand. They tried again last night, while I was sleeping. This morning I heard my grandfather talking with the recruitment chair.” Eponine opened her mouth to talk, but the man ran right over her. “They were talking about bringing in Fantine. _Fantine_. Eponine, I can’t… whatever has protected me until now, _it won’t be enough._ Not against her.” He pulled his hands from Eponine’s grip and clutched them tightly to his chest. His next words were harsh, dragged out of him full of tears unshed. “I’m going to wake one morning and no longer be me, and then there will be no stopping him.”

Eponine stepped back in close to the young man, wrapped her arms around him, and held him gently against her as his tears finally broke free and his entire body began to shake. Feuilly couldn’t blame him. Fantine… 

There were psychics, and then there were psychics. The run of the mill, everyday psychics employed by most branches of the government could read surface thoughts, sometimes even affect them to a certain degree, but that was all. They were easy to shield against. Clouding your mind with washes of color or particularly vibrant images was usually enough to do the trick. Then there were those higher up—psychics that served at the upper local and lower federal levels. They could read more deeply and could influence minds, making a person do and say things they might not want to do, but even those changes were temporary, fading with time and lack of exposure. Real solid shielding might keep them out, but those kinds of shields took training that most people didn’t have.

Above and beyond those mid-range psychics, however, were the psychics who worked at the highest levels of government office, answerable only to a select few at the upper federal levels. They were few and far between, those psychics, but everyone knew their names. They were the boogie men who haunted the childhood nightmares of every person in this country. Their names were spoken quietly in back rooms, whispered in alleys, when they were spoken at all. There was a healthy helping of superstition attached, to speaking any of their names—that to whisper the name too loudly was to summon the demon, because that was what they were.

Favourite.

Dahlia.

Zephine.

Tholomyes.

Georges.

Euphrasie.

The trouble was, not many psychics that powerful remained sane, so the government kept them on extremely short leashes. Those few who escaped government control either went entirely mad and destroyed themselves or found someone else to hold their leash. Montparnasse was at that level and he and sanity had never been more than passing acquaintances. If not for Eponine and Patron Minette, he’d have destroyed himself long before now. Prouvaire had been at that level, as well… and Feuilly certainly wouldn’t stake much money betting on _his_ sanity, either. He had seemed willing to let Enjolras hold his leash in the beginning, but now…? Feuilly was a poor substitute for Enjolras and he knew it. Perhaps it was only a matter of time for him, as well.

As for their power… if a person were made up of code and mid-range psychics could rewrite a few lines, turn off a command, here and there, then psychics at _this_ level could rewrite the code entirely. They could rewrite a person’s entire being until they were, as Eponine’s friend had put it, no longer themselves. And Fantine… Fantine was a step even beyond that. The government owned no more powerful psychic than Fantine. And Fantine… she had a host of urban legends attached to her name, more so than any of the others. 

She secretly ran the government, controlling the president as Prouvaire had threatened to do to Feuilly just a moment ago.

She could turn someone psychic with just a touch.

She did not eat food, rather fed directly off the energy of the minds of others like a vampire.

She had escaped from government control once, gone missing long enough to have a child—one even more powerful than she—then gone waltzing back to the government as though she’d just been out for a walk.

She was powerful enough to make puppets of an entire stadium of people, bending them to her will.

Her favorite hobby was to pluck random persons off the street and perform puppet shows with her chosen victims as the puppets.

The list went on. Feuilly had no idea which, if any, of those urban legends had a grain of truth to them, though logic dictated that vampirism and contagious psychic gifts, at least, were unlikely. What Feuilly _did_ know about Fantine, though, was that if she was the one reconditioning you… you stayed reconditioned. Eponine’s friend was right to be afraid.

[she isn’t like that.]

It had been the barest whisper of a contact, but Feuilly nearly jumped right off the bench all the same, because it hadn’t been Prouvaire to establish it. With Eponine distracted and Gavroche having wandered over to test his light fingers on the group of teenagers, Feuilly risked glancing up briefly to try to catch Prouvaire’s gaze without unduly calling attention to him.

That whisper of contact came again.

[be easy. prouvaire is known to me. you will not keep him from me by avoiding looking at him.]

Feuilly didn’t trust that advice, couldn’t trust that advice. Psychics had been known to use such tricks before. So rather than look straight at Prouvaire, Feuilly began slowly turning, taking in the various people scattered around the picnic tables, trying to match that mental voice with a physical presence. Mindvoice and physical appearance weren’t always a match, but it was all he had to go on. Old couple no longer drinking their coffees, now kissing—unlikely. Sister and brother no longer jumping into leaf piles and arguing, now playing tag through the trees—unlikely. Group of teenagers now almost entirely distracted by Gavroche returning the pilfered contents of their pockets to them—possible that it was one of them, taking advantage of the hoopla of Gavroche’s presence to establish contact, but still… unlikely. The strength in that whispered voice spoke of someone older. Woman on his 7 o’clock was also finished with her beverage and was now completely absorbed in her book—also possible, but unlikely. Apart from startling briefly when Eponine’s friend began his hysterics, she’d been buried in that book since she sat down. Girl Scout troop—highly unlikely. Psychics that strong didn’t do well in rigid, do-gooder groups like those. Perhaps a counselor? Or a parent of one of the children? Damn it. Feuilly completed his circuit, allowing him a glance in Prouvaire’s direction… just in time to see him shake his head.

[No luck. Whoever they are, they’re well-shielded. I know they’re _here_ , but I can’t pinpoint them.]

There was an undercurrent of downright glee to that thought and Feuilly’s eyes narrowed as it swelled. He focused his mind on the one thought he wanted Prouvaire to read. [Why the hell are you so happy about that?]

Prouvaire turned to drape himself backwards on the table, squinting up into the dappled light coming through the trees, and doing a credible imitation of a youth about to take a nap on the picnic table. Still that contact came swift and sure and practically vibrating now with excitement. [Think. We’re here to meet Eponine’s unaffiliated psychic. There’s an unknown psychic in the area so strong that I can’t pinpoint where they are or more about them than _that_ they are. This is a good thing, Feuilly. It means that, whoever they are, they're probably strong enough to help us.]

There was a slight flavor of laughter with the next intrusion into Feuilly’s thoughts. [that’s rather jumping the gun, don’t you think, jehan?]

[ **DON’T CALL ME THAT. _NEVER_ CALL ME THAT.** ]

Feuilly outright winced at the volume of that retort, one hand rising to clutch at his head. Even so, he marveled. Prouvaire’s position hadn’t changed—his very _expression_ had not even changed—as he’d battered back with that response. Had Feuilly not already had substantial shielding in place, the strength of that sending, alone, might have destroyed his mind.

[touchy. touchy. it’s only a name.] 

The soft peal of laughter was expected this time, but still Feuilly winced, fearing Prouvaire’s response. It was contained this time, none of the overwhelming volume of before in the words, but Feuilly still whimpered softly at the heat of accompanying fury beneath them. [How one chooses to be known is important. It may be the only thing that is.]

[hmmm. perhaps there is some truth to what you say. how one chooses to be known can be as important as what one is known for.] There was a brief pause, then the voice continued. [i have you at a disadvantage on that score, but it is not yet one i am willing to give up. have patience with me a little longer?]

At that, Feuilly finally managed to raise his head and calm the pounding that had plagued him since Prouvaire’s shout. Still, focusing his thoughts enough to present the one he wanted read was an exercise in patience, determination, and not a small amount of pain. [If you are who we believe you are, then patience is the least you can ask of us.] At Prouvaire’s raised eyebrow, Feuilly shook his head. Later. That was for later. They couldn’t afford to antagonize Eponine’s psychic just yet, not when they so badly needed their help.

For now, it was far more important that Eponine’s young man was finally stepping back and wiping the tears from his eyes. It was far more important that Eponine was snapping her fingers to recall Gavroche to the table. With a whispered word in his ear, Eponine then sent him off again. Feuilly barely had time to note the direction in which he’d gone before Eponine was straddling the bench before him again, a pinched look about her features. “It seems I’ve run out of time for playing games. We’re here because my psychic wanted a look at you before agreeing to meet. Since I’ve been informed that they like what they’ve seen of you so far, you’ll be taken on to the next location. When Gavroche returns, he’ll show you the way. As you can see,” she nodded in the direction of her visitor, “I now have far more important things to take care of.” With that she rose, inclined her head briefly in Feuilly’s direction, took her young man by the hand, and left.

[Well, well. The plot thickens.]

Feuilly sighed and let his head drop down onto the table. At least Prouvaire was back in a good mood. And as long as he was focused on the twin puzzles of Eponine’s young man and her psychic, with any luck, he’d leave Feuilly alone for a time. Feuilly didn’t raise his head again until Prouvaire warned him that Gavroche had returned. Gavroche silently indicated that Feuilly should follow him and, after a token protest, Feuilly convinced Prouvaire to remain behind. The Thenardiers didn’t yet know that Les Amis had a psychic among them, much less one who was a match for Montparnasse, nor did anyone else. Feuilly intended to keep it that way.

Gavroche finally settled Feuilly into a different picnic area, this one deserted. Before leaving, however, he placed something down on the table. Feuilly stared dumbly at it for a moment before looking up at Gavroche with an eyebrow raised. “What is this?”

“What’s it look like?” At Feuilly’s frown, Gavroche rolled his eyes. “You looked cold and I figured you could use it about now.” When Feuilly still made no move to take it, Gavroche huffed. “Black, two sugars, right?”

Feuilly finally found his voice again. “Gavroche… you can’t honestly think I’m going to drink that, can you? I wasn’t born yesterday.”

Gavroche shrugged, acknowledging the ridiculousness of the situation by flashing him a wide smile and by dropping all hint of pretense. “You want to actually meet this psychic of ours, you will.”

Shit. Feuilly stared at the takeaway coffee cup, mind furiously working. He doubted the coffee was outright poisoned. For all she ran with a dark crowd, Eponine’s word had always been good. She had her own brand of honor, and it was exacting. Feuilly had delivered on his part; she would deliver on hers. That didn’t, however, mean that Feuilly would necessarily like how she went about it. The coffee was obviously drugged, the only question was how. So, Feuilly did his best to think it through, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. The most likely possibilities were sedatives, so he could be moved to an alternate location without him being aware of where it was, a paralytic so he couldn’t harm this psychic when they approached… or. There was one other possibility.

There were rumors that Patron Minette had become involved with a drug cartel. Not that unusual for Patron Minette, but this cartel wasn’t pushing marijuana or developing the newest brand of ecstasy. No. They were working on a drug to shut down the part of the brain responsible for psychic activity. No one knew if it was true. No one knew how such a thing could be possible. There were always rumors, of course, of people who were completely psi-null by accident of birth. If so, a study of one of them might have given this cartel what they needed to finally develop a drug that would do chemically what their brains did naturally. Combeferre and Joly had been watching those rumors closely for developments, but there’d been no sign yet that the rumors were true. Still… it was a possibility that Feuilly couldn’t discount. Sedated or paralyzed, Prouvaire could still find him, still track him. With something like that in his system, however, he’d be on his own.

But this… this was what he’d come here for. If Feuilly backed out now, they might never meet Eponine’s psychic, and Courfeyrac’s sacrifice would be in vain. Feuilly couldn’t let that happen. Forming one last focused thought for Prouvaire to read, Feuilly lifted the coffee cup and saluted Gavroche. [Prouvaire, I may be about to make the biggest mistake of my life, but we’re out of options. Find me, if you can.] 

Feuilly then tipped the cup back and drank deeply of its contents. As warmth suffused his body and his eyelids began to lower, he had time for one last thought before he passed out— _Option #1, after all_ —and to receive one last sending in return… only it wasn’t the one he’d expected. Instead it was a contact that eased his mind and warmed him in a way that he couldn’t explain, proving that he’d either just made the world’s biggest mistake… or that it just might all come out right, after all.

[thank you for your trust, feuilly. you have my word. no harm will come to you. i'll see you when you wake.]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>  Unbeta'ed, except by me. Any and all mistakes are purely mine. As always, you can find me on tumblr at eirenical, so feel free to stop by and say hello! ^_^


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So. If I come over there to talk to R, are you going to bite my head off again, Enjolras, or are we good? Because, I’m tired enough to straight up admit that I don’t have the energy to get in another argument with you. Not today.”
> 
> Enjolras hung his head but answered Feuilly’s question clearly and distinctly with a simple: “About that… I owe you an apology.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  ** _October 21, 2017:_** HOLY SHIT, GUYS. A new chapter and it's been less than two months! *does the happy dance* ^_^ Yeah, I have nothing to say beyond that. Enjoy? ^_^
> 
> [tumblr post](http://eirenical.tumblr.com/post/166655846442/muet-chapter-11-50935-words-so-if-i-come).

“Excuse me… do you have the time?”

Prouvaire swung his legs to the left, bringing both feet to rest on the bench closest to his visitor. Ah. That was interesting. It was Feuilly’s “white-beret-white-wool-coat-buried-in-her-book” lady. He glanced down at his phone, then back up at the woman, offering her the barest hint of a smile. “2:17.”

She smiled in return and it lit up her whole face. Dimples. She had dimples. Of course, she had dimples. Prouvaire kept his snort purely internal as mental images of puppies and rainbows all but flooded him along with that smile. The woman slid onto the bench beside Prouvaire’s feet. “Thank you! I was supposed to be meeting someone here, but I’m beginning to think I’ve been stood up. Do you mind if I wait with you?”

Prouvaire turned on his most charming smile even as he began rolling up his earbuds and tucking his phone away in his pocket. “Not in the least. I think I’ve been abandoned, myself. I certainly wouldn’t mind the company.” 

Take the bait, pretty one. 

You’re safe with me, darling.

I’d never hurt you, sweetheart.

I’ll take care of everything…

It was easy to slide back into the role of the innocent charmer. Tame. Innocuous. Harmless. The bait behind which lay the trap. Too easy, by far.

The young woman had placed her book carefully on the table—“The Handmaid’s Tale”, not exactly light reading—and was now pressing her hands between her knees. “I swear it seems to get cold earlier and earlier every year. Next time I offer to meet up with someone, I’m doing it at a coffee shop.”

Prouvaire laughed—soft, gentle, harmless, a laugh that none of Les Amis would have believed he had in him—and nodded vigorously in response. “When I was little I remember being in shorts all the way through September some years. October was for jeans and tee-shirts, maybe a light jacket. Any time I have to break out my winter coat before November is just depressing.” He stuck out his tongue. “You just wait. We’ll probably end up buried in snow for most of the winter.”

The young woman made an equally disgusted face. “Ugh, I hope not. I live with my father and he’s… well. He’s certainly strong enough to do all the shoveling alone, but it never feels right to leave him to it.” At Prouvaire’s raised eyebrow, her smile twisted. “He’s done so much for me over the years, mostly on his own. I can’t ever really repay that, no matter how much he assures me it isn’t necessary. Still…” She shrugged.

Prouvaire leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Some debts can’t be repaid, but it doesn’t stop you from trying, does it?” When the woman tilted her head in query, he offered a shrug of his own. “Let’s just say I’ve seen the inside of the foster system, and most foster homes are for shit. Of all the people who took care of me over the years, only one ever gave any kind of an honest damn about me. And, like you and your father, I owe her so much that I could never pay it all back, not if I tried for a thousand years… but it doesn’t stop me from trying, either.”

Even as the woman was nodding her head, eyes soft with understanding, Prouvaire’s attention was suddenly, completely, and immediately elsewhere, and he missed whatever response she made, too busy listening to what Feuilly was saying, instead. 

[Prouvaire, I may be about to make the biggest mistake of my life, but we’re out of options. Find me, if you can.]

Shit. _Shit._ Prouvaire knew in an instant what had happened, the full story seething just underneath the thought that Feuilly had specifically projected. He knew, as well, that it was already too late to try to follow him directly. Feuilly would be long gone by the time Prouvaire reached wherever he’d been taken from. And Feuilly had to know that. It was why the command had been “find me” in the first place. And Prouvaire could do that. Finding people had been a specialty of his once upon a time. And Feuilly’s mind was known to him, and known well. Prouvaire could find him blindfolded.

Prouvaire forced himself to reach his hands up overhead as though he had all the time in the world for a leisurely stretch and nowhere vital to go. Because, in a way, he did. There was no use racing away after his idiot partner, especially since Feuilly had the car keys. He’d have to find another way to travel. He turned towards the young woman, ready to make his excuses, but didn’t get any farther than drawing in a breath before he was stopped.

The young woman had reached out one hand to lightly clasp his knee, a grip that would look imploring, pleading, to anyone else around, but that Prouvaire was suddenly all too aware put her in a perfect position to reach several pressure points—a grip that could incapacitate him before he could get even one foot down off the bench. She smiled, grey eyes locking on his. And along with that smile, there was a gentle whisper of contact. [please don’t. i don’t fancy having to track you down if you give me the slip, prouvaire.]

Prouvaire’s heart banged hard against his ribcage at that. **_Shit._** On instinct, he reached out, trying to read past her surface thoughts, trying to get any kind of a sense of who this woman was or what she might want, as he should have done when she first approached him. But, just as when he’d tried reading their unknown psychic, he slipped right off her shields, could find no purchase from which to gain entry. He couldn’t even tell for certain if the voice in his head actually belonged to the woman in front of him or if it belonged to someone else, someone using this woman as a puppet. Distance might account for how difficult he was finding it to read her. Or… 

Prouvaire swallowed hard against a suddenly dry throat. Or she could just be that good. And if so, then he was no match for her and he knew it—and now she knew it, too. And if she was a government tracker, like he’d once been, then Prouvaire was a dead man… or he’d soon wish he was. Having gotten away once already, there was no way that the higher-ups would let him go that easily a second time if they caught him. They’d have one of the others in his head, rewriting his personality into that of a drooling lapdog incapable of independent thought before he even had time to scream. After all… they didn’t need _him_. They just needed his gift.

It wasn’t something that psychics spoke of often—that it was as easy for a stronger psychic to make a puppet of a weaker one as it was for them to make a puppet of a regular human—but they all knew it could happen. And there were ways to make that kind of puppetry permanent. You had to destroy the puppet’s mind and personality to do it, sure, but it left you with full access to their gifts—perfect if you wanted the gift but not the troublesome personality along with it. Prouvaire had seen it happen to others when he was young, troublemakers who’d tried to buck the system.

Prouvaire would rather die than let it happen to him.

Prouvaire’s heart was beating now in double-time, his breath coming in tight gasps, even as his thoughts gathered into a hammer strike against the incipient panic. _You’re making a spectacle of yourself! Lock it down. Lock it down, **now**._ But he couldn’t. He couldn’t. This was his every worst nightmare come to life and his fucking partner had gone and gotten himself carted away like an absolute nitwit and couldn’t even help provide a distraction so Prouvaire could get away. He was alone. He was defenseless. And if she took him, no one would even know. They wouldn’t know where to look; wouldn’t even know they _had_ to look… maybe wouldn’t even care if they did.

Prouvaire wasn’t an idiot. Feuilly… they’d come for Feuilly. But that was different. Feuilly was one of them. Prouvaire… Prouvaire never had been. They didn’t trust him. Not one of them. Even Enjolras. Even R. They didn’t even _like_ him, for fuck’s sake. He was a convenience; a means to an end. That was all. He’d be gone and they wouldn’t even care. Despite his best efforts at control, Prouvaire shivered, and whether it was from the cold or from the fear ricocheting around his brain, it almost didn’t matter.

Abruptly, the hand on Prouvaire’s knee softened, fingers no longer locked on sensitive pressure points. The young woman met his eyes, again, only this time… her own were bright, and filled with unshed tears. [i'm sorry. oh prouvaire… i'm so sorry. damn it. i'm handling this so badly. i knew this would happen. i shouldn’t have let eponine leave me on my own. i’m terrible at this. shit.] She released him entirely, then, turning to her book and flipping through the pages. Eventually she stopped, then turned the book around and handed it to him. Prouvaire began to read.

_~Ofglen and I are more comfortable with one another now, we're used to each other. Siamese twins. We don't bother much with the formalities anymore when we greet each other; we smile and move off, in tandem, traveling smoothly along our daily track. Now and again we vary the route; there's nothing against it, as long as we stay within the barriers. A rat in a maze is free to go anywhere, as long as it stays inside the maze.~_

The last line of the paragraph was underlined and in the margin beside it were written six words: “Fuck the maze. Climb the walls.” And with those six words, Prouvaire’s frantically beating heart finally began to slow. He hadn’t known where the initial quote had come from until now, but he knew who had first spoken those added words. And if this young woman had them written in her copy of the book, it was as good as a mark of safe passage from the one who had said them.

Fantine.

Neither of them spoke the name, even between the relative safety of their minds, but the woman sitting beside Prouvaire slowly nodded, just once, then gently closed the book. And it was enough. Prouvaire could breathe, again. Finally, he said, [I’d wager she’s the reason you’ve managed to remain unaffiliated, but I’d still give quite a lot to know how she did it.]

The young woman smiled. [you’re not the only one.]

When no further answers were forthcoming, Prouvaire shook his head and laughed. [Fair enough. Have we at least reached the point where you’re comfortable sharing your name?]

In response, the young woman held out her hand. As Prouvaire clasped it, her smile widened. “Cosette. Cosette Fauchelevent. It’s a pleasure to meet you, at last.”

Prouvaire lifted Cosette’s hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss across the knuckles, before answering in kind. “Enchanted, Cosette. Just enchanted.” Prouvaire took a deep breath, hoping he wasn’t about to make the same gigantic mistake Feuilly feared he had, plastered that charming grin back onto his face, and asked, “Now, do you have coffee for me, too? Or do I get to travel to our meeting place still conscious?”

Cosette’s answer was a bright peal of laughter. Once she’d gotten herself under control, she shook a finger at him. [i do like you, prouvaire. i really do. but i don’t trust you that much. not yet.] She motioned off to the side and the older couple walked over with the thermos they’d been guarding since the beginning. The group of teenagers rose and circled them, cutting off whatever escape Prouvaire might have had. As for the two children, Prouvaire could see, even now, that Gavroche was counting out bills into the girl’s hand.

Prouvaire shook his head in wonder. [You really do think of everything, don’t you?]

This time, Cosette’s smile was so wide that she popped dimples, again. [you honestly have no idea of your own reputation, if you can ask a question like that with a straight face. i wasn’t leaving anything for chance.] She stuck her tongue out. [but i will admit, the girl scout troop wasn’t part of the plan--though they did add a nice layer of verisimilitude to the scene, didn’t they?]

Prouvaire held out a hand for the thermos lid, now full of coffee, and whatever surprise Cosette had planned to put him under. He paused with the cup at his lips. [If I asked how you arranged it so that I couldn’t read any of that deception, in spite of how good you say I am… I don’t suppose you’d answer, would you?]

Cosette’s answer was to wink… and tip the cup upwards, leaving Prouvaire no choice but to swallow or choke. As the sedative took effect, he managed one last sending, to which Cosette replied with another peal of delighted laughter. 

[Well, that’s a cheap way to get out of answering, if ever I saw one.]

* * *

“They’re back!”

All conversation ceased at that exuberant yell, everyone at the table turning to look for the source. Moments later, Bahorel skidded to a halt in the dining room doorway, and waved a hand back down the hall as he caught his breath to repeat, “Feuilly and Prouvaire—they’re back!”

Grantaire was the first to his feet, taking off down the hallway in a sprint. This was _not_ going to go down like the last time. Not if he had any say in it. Feuilly deserved better than that. But first he had to beat Enjolras to him.

He did. Still, as fast as he’d run, Grantaire found that Bossuet, Joly, and Musichetta had somehow beaten even him to the garage. Feuilly was already out of the car, leaning on the driver’s side door and talking to Joly. At a quick glance, he looked fine—a little rough around the edges maybe, but all his limbs were intact and there were no obvious wounds. And that was the best you could hope for some days. Besides, Joly was right there. If anything was seriously wrong with Feuilly, he’d find out much faster than Grantaire would. But that was Feuilly. Where was Prouvaire?

Grantaire eased closer, paused just long enough at Feuilly’s side to give his shoulder a squeeze, then continued on, peering in through the car windows to look for Prouvaire. It wasn’t until he got all the way around to the passenger side door that he found him. Prouvaire was curled up in the passenger seat, Feuilly’s emergency blanket wrapped completely around him. But it was his eyes that made Grantaire draw in a sharp breath. They were wide open, whites showing all the way around the irises, as he stared out the passenger side window. Easing closer, Grantaire waved a hand in front of Prouvaire. No reaction. [Hey.] Grantaire floated that thought out like bait, as gently and quietly as he could. [This is probably a dumb question, but… you OK, buddy?]

Prouvaire still made no response, didn’t even blink. He just kept staring out the passenger window of Feuilly’s car, hunched down into that old green army surplus blanket like it was his last defense against whatever was clearly haunting him. Grantaire tried twice more to get Prouvaire’s attention by floating thoughts his way, getting progressively louder each time, but with just as little success.

“What the hell happened to him?”

Enjolras’ question echoed in the stillness of the garage just as it echoed Grantaire’s own thoughts. Grantaire shuddered. Even Joly and Feuilly’s voices had been more subdued than that. The way Enjolras had broken the silence, though, voice raised at a normal volume, seemed somehow obscene. Turning to face him, Grantaire tapped the side of his head twice, then raised an eyebrow and tilted his head. Enjolras’ eyes narrowed momentarily, then widened. He nodded.

Experimentally, Grantaire floated a brief thought: [Well, that’s a relief.] When Enjolras didn’t even so much as wince in response, Grantaire smiled, though a smile was just as out of place in this as Enjolras’ conversational tone had been a moment ago. He continued. [Especially since I get the feeling that Prouvaire’s not going to be up to translating for a while… or possibly much of anything.] Grantaire turned back to Prouvaire, his smile slipping and turning into a frown. [I have no idea what happened, but for it to affect Prouvaire this badly—of all people—fuck. Maybe I’m a coward, Enjolras, but I don’t think I want to know.]

Before Enjolras could respond, someone else spoke up… and now Enjolras winced.

“So. If I come over there to talk to R, are you going to bite my head off again, Enjolras, or are we good? Because, I’m tired enough to straight up admit that I don’t have the energy to get in another argument with you. Not today.”

Enjolras hung his head but answered Feuilly’s question clearly and distinctly with a simple: “About that… I owe you an apology.”

When Grantaire looked up, it was to see Feuilly leaning against the car on the driver’s side, one hand resting atop the other and supporting his head—supporting his whole body from the way his posture was drooped. His eyes were bloodshot, the bags under them so deep he could have hidden a small child in them. Grantaire drew in a quick breath. [He looks like shit.] Enjolras winced again but didn’t otherwise comment; he didn’t even raise his head.

Finally, Feuilly turned his face into his hands, curling the top one into a fist to press against his forehead for a moment before sighing and looking up. “Fine. You do, and I want to hear it, but we’ll get to that later. We have more important things to discuss right now.”

Enjolras tilted his head towards the car, still somehow managing not to meet Feuilly’s gaze. “Like him?”

Feuilly stepped back from the car to look inside for a moment. Prouvaire hadn’t moved. Feuilly slumped, raising a hand to rub at his forehead again. Grantaire had a sudden and irrational desire to pull his hand away and take over the job, himself. It was no secret that with Courfeyrac out of commission—and now Enjolras and Grantaire, too—Feuilly had been taking on the brunt of Les Amis’ more clandestine activities. But it hadn’t been until this moment that Grantaire had seen how much of a toll it was really taking on him. Normally… well. Normally it would have been Enjolras to look after him when he overdid it. But now… Not for the first time, Grantaire had cause to regret Enjolras’ lost memory for Feuilly’s sake alone. He was soldiering on well enough, but he’d lost someone very dear to him when Enjolras lost his memory, someone who had been a large part of his emotional support system. And now with Courfeyrac gone, as well, he had no one. It wasn’t right, and it was going to kill him if it kept up much longer. They had to find another way. They had to get him some support. But that was a problem for another time.

Feuilly lowered his hand. “No. That’s—no. This was just,” he made a face. “Unintended collateral damage. He reacted badly to one of the drugs they fed us before relocating us to a safehouse for the meeting. Hopefully he’ll be fine once it wears off—by morning.”

“Yeah… about that…” They all turned as Joly spoke up. He stepped up next to Feuilly, his arms crossed over his chest. “Are you sure we can trust anything this woman told you? Clearly, Prouvaire wasn’t meant to react as poorly as he did. If she didn’t foresee that this could happen, what else might she not have foreseen? What else might she not have told you, even if just in ignorance?”

Feuilly didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. Instead, he opened the driver’s side door and slid back into the car. He then reached across the console to lightly grip Prouvaire’s shoulder. Grantaire’s heart leapt into his throat at the casual action. Prouvaire didn’t react well to unexpected touches even in the best of circumstances, which these were decidedly not. He fully expected Prouvaire to, at the very least, jump at that contact—so did Enjolras, if his audible gasp was anything to judge by—but Prouvaire… didn’t. He just slowly turned to regard Feuilly out of the corner of his eye and, in a voice nearly as hoarse and ugly as Grantaire’s own, croaked out, “Are we home?”

The grip Feuilly had on Prouvaire’s shoulder shifted to become a gentle caress, one that Prouvaire leaned back into. He nodded. “We’re home. Are you going to be OK for a little longer, or do you want to go to your room now?”

Prouvaire stared at Feuilly for nearly a minute, throat working and eyes wide before finally managing to get out, “Now? Please?”

Feuilly’s shoulders slumped at that answer and, when he next lifted his head, he moved as though it weighed 100 pounds. “OK. I just need to— let me just tell them what they need to know. Then I’ll help you.” When the only response Prouvaire offered to that was a listless shrug and to hunch back down into the blanket to curl up even tighter than before, knees raised to his chest and face pressed between them, Feuilly frowned. He didn’t push, though, merely gave Prouvaire’s shoulder one last rub before getting back out of the car. By then the rest of Les Amis had gathered. Feuilly look at each of them in turn before allowing his gaze to come to rest on Enjolras, who still couldn’t quite meet it.

“We found an unaffiliated psychic.”

The flurry of responses to that statement was a cacophony of overlapping voices that made Prouvaire wince and hunch even further into his seat. And Grantaire couldn’t take watching it any longer. He and Prouvaire might not precisely be friends, but they certainly were far from being enemies, and Prouvaire would never have stood for appearing so vulnerable if he could help it. And he clearly couldn’t help it… but Grantaire could. He opened the passenger side door and slid in. There wasn’t much room, but this was an older car with a wider body and there was just enough. Prouvaire looked up, at last, his eyes narrowed, squinting at Grantaire as though he couldn’t bring him into focus. One soft hand landed on Grantaire’s leg, another on his face, running back and forth over the stubble Grantaire hadn’t bothered to shave. Back and forth, back and forth. [You’re going to give yourself stubble burn if you keep that up.]

No response. Prouvaire kept up that slow rubbing, his other hand holding tighter and tighter to Grantaire’s thigh. He was going to leave bruises if he held on any tighter, but Grantaire didn’t have the heart to dislodge him—not when his hold on Grantaire’s leg was the only thing keeping him upright. Eventually he drew back, started shaking his head and muttering something under his breath that Grantaire had to lean in even closer to hear.

“Fucking cardboard cutout of a person. Not real, not real, not real, not real…”

Prouvaire went on in that vein for some time, slowly rocking back and forth to the rhythm of his muttering. Truth be told, it was making Grantaire more than a little twitchy but, he had no intention of leaving Prouvaire alone to it, no matter what uncomplimentary things he was saying. 

By the time Prouvaire quieted, Feuilly had also finished speaking. Grantaire had missed the entire debrief, but keeping Prouvaire calm had been more important by far. He opened the car door and leaned out. Enjolras was standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest and looking for all the world like a cat who’d just had an unexpected dunking. The others were broken into smaller groups around the garage, some scowling, others smiling. Feuilly, himself, had come around the car to the passenger side, every muscle taut and a deeper scowl on his face than even Enjolras was wearing. Better and better.

Grantaire eased his way out of the car, waving Feuilly on as he moved. Feuilly leaned in, said a few quiet words to Prouvaire, then offered his hand. Prouvaire took it and climbed out of the car, letting the blanket fall behind him. He was steady enough on his feet when he got them under him to not need to be carried, but the way he swayed with each step was reminiscent of one drunk. He flinched away from anyone who approached but seemed willing to let Feuilly keep an arm tucked around one of his. Grantaire kept a close watch as they made their unsteady way out of the garage, then turned to Enjolras the moment they were out of sight, simply spreading his arms and raising his eyebrows.

Enjolras threw his hands in the air. “I know, I know. I’m just— I don’t appreciate that everywhere I turn I’m causing more problems.” He drooped then, arms falling to his sides. “I’m not mad at him. I’m mad at _me_. Everything they went through today, everything Courfeyrac is going through, still… it’s all because of me. I never wanted that. Never. No one of us more important than the others. _That’s_ what I wanted. What the hell happened to us in the last two years? What did I _let_ happen?”

There was nothing to say to that. Because, Enjolras was right. Whether he liked it or not, whether he wanted it or not, he’d become the face of Les Amis. He was their founder. And that meant something to the rest of them. That meant everything. But since saying that most definitely wouldn’t help, Grantaire did the only thing he could. He held his arms open and waited. It didn’t take long before Enjolras all but fell into them, tucking his face into Grantaire’s chest and letting himself break into quiet, heart-wrenching sobs. And Grantaire just stood there, holding him close as he cried.

* * *

Just put one foot in front of the other. Don’t lean too far in any direction. Don’t clutch too tightly at the arm Feuilly so kindly lent for just that purpose. Just keep moving. Keep moving through a world that felt less and less real with each heartbeat. Prouvaire’s breath was coming fast and hard in his chest, like he’d run a marathon instead of walked a hundred feet.

A soft tug on his arm let Prouvaire know that they’d reached their destination before gently guiding him inside. A voice just as soft asked, “Will you be alright if I leave you alone?”

Empty. That voice was empty of everything that made a voice sound real. No emotion, no inflection, no thoughts seething beneath the spoken words. A fucking radio producing those sounds would have felt more real. Prouvaire raised shaking hands to clutch at his head. His world had never been this silent before. Not even in dreams. So, he couldn’t respond, couldn’t force his own voice past his lips, not knowing that it would be just as empty as Feuilly’s.

“Here. Let me.”

Hands pulling at his, gently disentangling his fingers from his hair, then replacing them. A slender, delicate touch, massaging away the ache Cosette’s drugs had left behind as a parting gift. But the physical ache was but one small part of it and no amount of touching, no matter how gentle, was going to fill the gaping void that had sucked all light, sound, and air out of Prouvaire’s world. Prouvaire could scream as loud as he could and still not fill that void. He could slam his head against every wall, dig his fingers through his head into his very brain, break every bone in his body and still not breach that muffling emptiness to touch the world again.

When Prouvaire had first woken… he’d tried every one.

Feuilly had shouted, begged, pleaded and, when that had failed, he’d wrestled Prouvaire to the ground, arms and legs wrapped tightly around him, and just held on until help came. They’d pinned his arms and legs and braced his head and he’d just screamed louder, fought harder. Anything, _anything_ , to feel something, to hear something. It had taken hours to scream himself hoarse, and he thought he’d broken something in his voice doing it, but it didn’t matter. What mattered was that the world had just fucking _gone away_ and Prouvaire couldn’t find it again.

When he’d finally exhausted himself, they’d let him go and he’d collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. He didn’t know how long he lay gasping on the floor like that, splayed out where they’d left him, too shaky to move, but eventually he became aware that there were other people screaming. Had someone taken the world away from them, too?

The way they turned towards him told Prouvaire he’d said that out loud. He hadn’t— how did you know? How could you tell? When you couldn’t hear, how did you know if you’d spoken? He must have said that out loud, too, because now Cosette was dropping to her knees beside him, tears running down her cheeks. She hadn’t known. She hadn’t realized. No one else had reacted this badly. She should have _thought_.

Feuilly had dropped down beside him, too, gently helped Prouvaire up off the floor and onto a nearby chair. Even the chair been fuzzy and unreal, like it might disappear from beneath him at any moment, and he found himself clutching at it so hard that it left imprints in his hands. Cosette and Feuilly began talking again, in tinny echoes like hand-crank radios with salvaged speakers. Prouvaire could barely understand them, but he tried. It was important that he try.

He’d failed anyway.

The next thing he knew, he was being bundled into Feuilly’s car, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders. Feuilly had held his hand the entire way home—Cosette’s suggestion to attempt to ground him in reality—but it didn’t help. Feuilly’s hand felt no more real to him than a doll’s, and the longer they drove, the longer that creeping horror of wrongness settled into Prouvaire’s bones. He’d been detached from the weave. He was an astronaut floating off into space with a broken tether, the spaceship that was his only chance of salvation getting smaller and smaller in the distance as he spiraled away, tumbling end over end into infinity. It just remained to see which would break first—his lungs for lack of air… or his mind from the immensity of the silence. And at this point, Prouvaire would have considered it a mercy if Feuilly would take away the possibility of the second choice, would just move his hands down from massaging Prouvaire’s temples to close over his nose and mouth instead. Death would be kinder than this.

Eventually Feuilly sighed and let his hands drop. “I wish you’d talk to me. I wish I could reach you. Fuck. I never thought I’d say this, but I’d even settle for you climbing into my lap to try to molest me again. _Anything_ to let me know that you’re OK in there. That you’re still you.” He paused, snorted out a short laugh as he moved to perch on the edge of Prouvaire’s bed. “Talk about words I never thought I’d hear myself say. Time was, I’d have given anything for you to calm down for once. Just like this. And that wasn’t so long ago.”

Prouvaire backed away, giving his head a firm shake like he’d gotten water in his ears and might dislodge it. No such luck. Feuilly’s voice droned on in the background, speaking nonsense for all Prouvaire could make it out. Still… it was better than the silence. Using that grainy, barely there sound as an anchor, Prouvaire moved listlessly around the room, shedding articles of clothing as he went. Coat. Scarf. Shoes. Shirt. Pants. Socks. With each article of clothing Prouvaire dropped, Feuilly’s voice grew quieter, more strained.

“…you do know I was joking about molesting me, yeah?”

Prouvaire circled around to the other side of the bed, lifted the covers and crawled underneath, edging as close to Feuilly as he could get. Body heat. The warmth a person generated as their body ran the processes that maintained life. It wasn’t enough, but It was something. It was something a doll couldn’t counterfeit. Like that tinny echo of a voice, it was an anchor, and every one helped.

After a few minutes, Feuilly seemed to realize that Prouvaire had no intentions on him beyond this and relaxed, easing back onto the bed and stretching his legs out in front of him. Prouvaire pulled at his arm, might even have whined a little, until he eased down further, stretching out completely with a soft sigh. Prouvaire then inched closer, wrapping himself around every part of Feuilly he could reach. Body heat. Breath. Heartbeat. Subtle vibrations under his ear as Feuilly continued to speak. It was a stop-gap repair job on the tether, a hand reaching out across the void. It wasn’t much… but maybe it would be enough to keep Prouvaire from floating away completely.

So, Prouvaire closed his eyes and gave up the fight, leaving it to Feuilly to hold onto him for just a little while longer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:**  
>  Any and all mistakes are purely my own. Sorry if I missed any. You can find me on tumblr at [eirenical](http://eirenical.tumblr.com). I promise I don't bite! ^_^


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